#an indie horror flick

[pinkeoni]

i think that the take that horror is meant to be "bad, cheaply made b movies" is as reductive to the genre as the take that the only good horror is recent "elevated" horror

[hyperpiperjlf]

Voting has started! Please vote for me: https://faceofhorror.org/2023/jimmy-francis

[highshelfcollective]

🔪 Ready to be scared?

'SHADOWS OF DREAD', a unique #SlasherFlick mini series begins TONIGHT - 8PM EST! Join us at Ravenswood Community College as an innocent study group learns that acing the next exam might not be the only thing they need to worry about this semester!

@sirhooper55 of @lostcaravanrpg is ready to lead us through 'SHADOWS OF DREAD'! Twitch.tv/highshelfcollective

CAST: @optimistiics @candacethemagnificent @beezelda_ @improvandrpg @fenacinni

[cavedwellermusic]

Open 24 Hours Movie Review

A look at a fear inducing psychological horror

This movie constantly keeps you guessing and paranoid just like Mary. You start to question what you’re seeing constantly, and it gets worse and worse as we go down the rabbit hole. The final confrontation Is grueling and psychologically damaging in all the right ways. The gore is intense and over the top, and the tension is brutal. I’d put it up there at the top of the ranks when it comes to psychological horror shows, which is no easy task these days.

[klausinamarink]

based on this hilarious video with Gianmarco Soresi whom I’ve been watching his comedy work for a few months now

read on ao3

“What do you do?” The standup of the hour - the guy had introduced himself as Eddie - points at Steve.

Flustered at the attention directing every eye in the club to his table, Steve tries not to stammer as he answers, “Well, uh, I make movies.”

“Oh!” Eddie genuinely looks interested. “So you’re a director?”

“Yeah, pretty much. At least I started out as an indie, but I have a big project that’s out and a couple more on the way.” One table nearby claps and Steve tries to wave them off to stop.

“So what was that big project? Was it something we would’ve seen?” Eddie repositions himself so he has one leg up on the stool. Steve stares at how lean they seem with the tight black jeans. He’s got them daddy long legs. His brain suddenly burps out and it nearly makes Steve lose his composure.

“Uh, ha, I did The Final Bat. It’s on Shudder.” Steve shrugs nonchalantly, perfectly hiding his internal cringe. The horror genre is way out of his league and Steve’s already seen The Final Bat being on a few critical lists damning the title as another cliche-filled mess. He only did it because he had finally caved to Dustin’s pleading to make at least one horror movie.

Eddie, on the other hand, seems ecstatic by this revelation. “No way! That’s sick, dude! So the next time you make a horror flick, you’re gonna watch Blumhouse and A24 coming in at each other with steel chairs for distribution rights.”

Everyone laughs, including Robin. She smacks on Steve’s bicep with a wide grin. He smacks her back before he turns back to Eddie and clarifies, “I don’t like horror! I’m not doing it again!”

Aghast, Eddie throws an invisible hat to the ground and stamps on his feet. “Come on! Then what’s the point of watching the studios bite each other’s dicks off when you’re slipping out to watch - I don’t know - the Barbie movie! Now they’re just fighting for the next shitty horror movie to exist!”

Steve covers his mouth but fails to hold back in the laughter. Eddie’s infectious energy is starting to get to him. It makes his chest clench with something other than the usual pains.

Eddie patiently waits for the patrons to quiet down before continuing, still attentive to Steve, “I’m just wondering actually if you ever done theater class.”

“Sure did! Two years in high school,” Steve confirms.

“Let me guess, they did Hamlet?” Eddie raises an eyebrow like it’s meant to be accusatory.

“Yep, soon after I joined.” Steve nods, the memory of that production flashing before his eyes. It had its ups and downs but it was one of the most fun things Steve had ever experienced.

“No wonder they started as soon as your handsome ass walked in the club.” Eddie says low and flirtatiously into the microphone, staring directly into Steve’s eyes. It echoes across the room and back, bringing the howling laughter with it.

Heat crawls behind his face. Steve keeps his hands on the table, forcing down the urge to hide behind them. “I-” He stops to cough, “I wasn’t supposed to play Hamlet.”

Eddie’s eyes go wide, “What do you mean?!”

Robin answers loud enough for everyone to hear, “He was the grave robber, but the other guy who did Hamlet got into a coma a week before the show and Steve knew all the lines.”

“W-Woah, woah, woah!” Eddie holds his hands out, looking scandalous. He throws looks around the club. “Everyone, shut the fuck up right now! This is more important than caring about the rest of you!” Eddie drags the stool over and perches on it like a very much invested gargoyle, almost oblivious to the audience’s reaction.

“Okay, let me go through this.” He points at Steve, still holding eye contact as if Steve’s soul would provide the answer. “You weren’t Hamlet. You were meant to be the guy who gives him the skull to monologue. The OG Hamlet got into a coma for some reason-“

“Car accident.” Robin interjects.

“Yeah, no need to elaborate, ma’am. You, Steve-” Eddie breaks off for a second, holding back a laugh of his own. “You somehow knew all the Hamlet lines because you were waiting to skin OG Hamlet’s head and make his skull yours to do the monologue.”

There’s a scandalous outcry from all tables. Even when they mostly calm down, Steve uses the growing anticipation to ‘think’ about what Eddie just said before he casually shrugs and says, “Sounds about right.”

Eddie drops his face into his arm, letting everyone laugh at him. Steve lets himself break, his laughter bubbling out of him in a way that doesn’t sound so self-deprecating or hollow. If he was in a cynical mood, he would’ve thought it was pathetic that the only person who made him laugh so lightly again was some random standup.

After a moment, Eddie finally looks up, his face broken in disbelieving grin. He chuckles into the mic and looks back at Steve, “Sorry, it’s just I hear some wild stories in the crowd some nights and I think yours takes the cake.”

Steve smiles, “Thanks, man.”

Eddie stands up back, half-leaning onto the stool. “Do you still remember those lines? To be or not to be?”

The whole damn thing. “Uh… some of it?”

Eddie’s grin shifts into something more mischievous. “Let’s see who knows more.”

A collective oooh goes around the room, including Robin. She already has her phone out for recording. Steve rolls his eyes at her and takes a quick sip of his water. He clears his throat and starts, “‘To be or not to be, that is the question.’”

“‘Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer, the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune..’” Eddie says without missing a beat.

Oh, he thinks he knows it all. The sense of competition that Steve thought had died out with his future of a sports career reignites in his chest. He sits up even straighter. “‘Or to take arms against a sea of troubles and by opposing end them.’”

“‘To die-to sleep, no more.’” Eddie slowly walks over to the edge of the stage, “‘And by a sleep to say we end the heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks that flesh is heir to.’”

“'tis a consummation devoutly to be wish'd.’” Steve almost shivers as he recites the line, uncertain if it’s from the club’s cooling temperatures or the intense gaze from Eddie’s eyes. “‘To die, to sleep.’”

“‘To sleep, perchance to dream—ay, there's the rub,’” Eddie suggestively rubs a hand on his chest as he squats down. Steve’s eyes flicker to the hand, almost hypnotized by the motion. Nay, he shakes himself out of it. No distractions!

“‘For in that sleep of death what dreams may come, when we have shuffled off this mortal coil.’” It’s getting harder to remember the following lines. That hasn’t happened before. Steve has never forgotten the damn soliloquy in years, even when other people try to challenge him.

Eddie continues, “‘Must give us pause—there's the respect that makes calamity of so long life. For who would bear the whips and scorns of time, the oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely.’”

“‘The pangs-’” Steve feels his breath catching in his throat when he realizes, for the first time, what beautiful eyes Eddie has.

Oh. 

Eddie suddenly perks up in excitement. For a second, Steve thinks that Eddie has come to the exact same thoughts for him. But then he remembers that he hasn’t completed his line, so Steve feigns defeat.

“I win!” Eddie stands up with a triumphant cry. He spreads his arms out to embrace the cheering whoops and applause. “And I’ve only got to play Hamlet in-” He spins around and crouches down so he can look Steve in the eye again as Eddie’s voice booms into the mic, “-FOURTH GRADE, MOTHERFUCKER!” 

Steve’s not even mad. He just throws his head back, laughing and clapping along. 

Almost too soon, Eddie moves on to heckle on another table. But he keeps glancing over at Steve, his smile widening every time. And Steve smiles back, feeling a laugh slip out of his slips at every joke. He watches Eddie more closely, feeling his heart pound faster in his chest the more Eddie stays onstage. 

By the time Eddie has to depart and thank everyone for being here, Robin announces her need to go home and snuggle with her girlfriend. 

“Man, that was the most I’ve ever laughed in this place.” Steve stretches his back, groaning at the little pops. God, being in his early thirties can be a bitch sometimes.

Robin only hums, moving her eyebrows up and down suggestively. Steve pointedly makes no further comment as he pays the tab.

Outside, the crisp night air welcomes him. Steve takes in a whiff, staring up at the light-polluted sky as he bids Robin a goodbye. Then he hears his name being called. He turns around and sees Eddie hurrying out the doors.

Steve feels a smile already on his face, “Hey, Hamlet.” 

Eddie grins at him, teeth and all, “Hey, yourself.” 

They stare at each other but it lacks the competitive intensity earlier. Steve likes this. But he already has a feeling that this won’t be the first time either one of them would challenge the other.

“Sooo…” Steve says when the silence stretches a little too long. He gestures between himself and Eddie, “Wanna restart our introductions?”

Eddie’s eyes brighten, “Yeah! Right, sorry.” He clears his throat and thrusts a hand out. “My name is Eddie Munson. Self-proclaimed comedian and musician. You may recognize me as the guy who beat you in Hamlet’s famous speech.”

Steve takes his hand. Eddie feels bony and thin, but large enough to fit perfectly into Steve’s palm. He tries not to sound so eager as he says, “Steve Harrington. Film director who doesn’t like horror. Believe it or not, I actually know the whole stupid thing.”

Eddie tilts his head, narrowing his eyes, “Really? Like, no offense, but even if you remember that much-”

“‘And thus the native hue of resolution is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought, and enterprises of great pith and moment with this regard their currents turn awry and lose the name of action.’” Steve winks with the Harrington Charm, smile and all. 

Eddie stares at him for so long that Steve feels his heart racing for a different reason. And then, Eddie turns around and muffles a loud scream into his free hand. When the man turns back to face him, he’s sporting the widest smile Steve has never seen.

“You knew the whole thing!?” Eddie’s eyes sparkle with utter adoration.

“Yep.” Steve pops the ‘p’, grinning like a little shit.

“But why did you forget that line?”

“Let’s just say,” Steve squeezes Eddie’s hand, intertwining their fingers together, “I got distracted by the pangs of love.”

Eddie bites on his lower lip as he swoons his body over so they are pressing against each other. With half-lidded eyes, Eddie whispers, “You know that part is Hamlet referring to missing his dead dad, right?”

Of course Steve couldn’t help but kiss him.

[arnivold]

Indie TTRPG Summer Sale Fundraiser!

Hello! Adrian Lumm here, head of Purple Moon Games. I'm a Queer independent TTRPG designer who is trying to raise money to get out of a crappy home situation. My goal is to raise enough money to put a deposit down on a small apartment and move out of my parents' place for good.

To that end, I've created a summer sale! Every RPG I have in stock is currently on sale for half off, or buy my entire collection for $75! Every little bit helps. Only 10 full bundle sales are needed to reach my goal of $750!

My library of games is fairly diverse: There's horror, fantasy, action-flick, Soulslike-inspired, and more!

Included in this sale/bundle is the popular solo TTRPG Castle of Memories as well.

Pride Month may be over, but I'm still in need of your assistance! Your support is appreciated!

[mouwrites]

Creepypasta/MH - Doing Halloween Stuff With Them :)

(Characters: Tim/Masky, Eyeless Jack, Jeff the Killer, Nina the Killer, Jane the Killer, Ticci Toby)

Tim/Masky

Hear me out... corn maze

I believe that Tim enjoys a good puzzle every now and again

He loves trying to figure things out (specifically when there's nothing at risk)

Getting to show off his navigational skills is also a major plus

He just likes to impress you, even if it comes off as annoying sometimes

"See? What'd I tell you? The exit's right there."

Though he does like the satisfaction of completing the maze, what he really treasures is that time you spend together figuring it out

Once you finally find the exit, you'll celebrate with hot cocoa :D

Eyeless Jack

This man LOVES carving pumpkins

He goes all out; definitely one of those people who makes the crazy intricate designs that look like they take hours

He'll love it if you help him!

If you have a steady hand, he'll let you do the details

If you don't, he'll task you with gutting the pumpkin/handing him tools

You guys collaborate on multiple pumpkins throughout the month, setting them in random locations for everyone to see

If there's a design you want to do, just show it to him, there's no question he'll be down

If it's too simplistic, he'll try to add more details

"Ooh, Jack, look at this one. Can we try to re-create it?"

"Of course! Though I do have some ideas on how it can be improved..."

Jeff the Killer

Another pumpkin carving enjoyer

But for a different reason... a very different reason

He loves the goriness of gutting the pumpkins

He couldn't care less about making actual designs, he just wants to get messy stabbing the pumpkin and gouging out its insides

That being said, he'll 100% gut your pumpkin if you ask him (he'll probably end up doing it even if you don't ask)

It's honestly a little disturbing watching him work

He just gets this look in his eye...

"You, uh... you doing okay there, Jeff?"

"Hm? Yup! Never better!! Say, can you grab the big knife from the kitchen for me?"

Nina the Killer

You best bet she's the costume queen

Spends the whole year planning matching horror-themed costumes

She'll settle for no less than creativity and perfection

High-quality props and articles only!! She'll even make them herself if she has to!

You can expect to spend at least an hour in front of the mirror while she does your makeup/adjusts your clothes

She's an SFX makeup legend, loves incorporating as much gore into your costume as possible

Don't ask why it's so realistic (it's not like she knows how the wound would look if it was real or anything)

"Wow, Nina... It's almost like I can feel it! It's so real!"

"No, no. If you were feeling it, you would be screaming pretty loud right now."

You can also expect to attend multiple parties where you show off your costumes

You guys dominate costume competitions

Jane the Killer

Horror movies!!

Specifically, making fun of them

You both pick apart the plot, the characters, the dialogue, the special effects, everything

No horror film is safe from your scrutiny

If you're the type to get scared during horror movies, her snide comments will help distract you

"Ooh, I can't look!"

"Oh, come on. Look—I bet they used corn syrup for that fake blood. It's way too thick."

When the movie ends, you're both feeling more amused than scared

She doesn't like to see horror films in theaters because she doesn't get to make commentary, plus she doesn't want to "waste" money on a "stupid tryhard-horror flick"

She'd much rather dig up some old indie DVD/VCR and have a home movie night with you

Ticci Toby

Halloween sweets are his bread and butter

Candy apples, fun-sized candy bars, candy corn, pumpkin bread...

He would perish if you made anything homemade for him

Spends the whole month gorging on sweets almost as fast as he can get his hands on them

He will not share with anyone but you

And even you only get a small portion of his goodies

Robs at least one child on Halloween night, mostly for the candy but also because he likes scaring little kids

"Where did you get all that candy?"

"Got it from a little birdy. By that I mean a kid in Falcon cosplay."

"Toby! ... save me the (favorite candy)."

Thank you for reading! Have a good day/night my spooky pookies <33

(divider by saradika)

[himbosandhardwear]

Steddie I 2.3k words I Angst I Hurt/Comfort I Idiots to Lovers I SFW

The phone rings at a quarter to six, not an unheard of time for someone to call on a Friday evening, but he's not expecting anyone, so he lets it ring out until the machine gets it. Screening phone calls has become the new normal in the Munson abode. 

“Hey, Eddie, it's me.” There's a weird pause and then he gives unnecessary clarification. “Steve. It's Steve. You there?”

Eddie's already heading toward the phone, so he's still laughing when he picks up. “I can't believe it took me six years to figure out what a huge dork you are.”

“Me? Why am I a dork?”

“Because you just talked to my machine as though you've never called here before. It was weird. You're weird.”

Eddie hopes this comes across like the compliment that it is. Sometimes he says things to Steve and he's not sure if they land the way he wants. This time does land, thankfully, as Steve chuckles softly. 

“So what's up?” He asks, hoping he doesn't sound too eager, like he's desperate for a hangout.

“Oh. Um. So, I was wondering if you're free tonight?” 

Eddie punches the air a few times. “Sure am. What’d you have in mind?”

“Movie? The Hawk is playing some disgusting horror flick I assume you'd be into. And, uh, maybe food. Burgers or something.”

“Or something,” Eddie teases. He's practically floating on air, which is embarrassing, but Steve doesn't know that. “Sounds like a date,” he says, stupidly. 

Steve doesn't respond right away, the seconds stretching to infinity before he clears his throat. “Well, yeah. I hope so.”

Static fizzles through Eddie's brain. “What.”

“I hope it sounds like a date. Cause. You know.”

“I don't know,” Eddie manages, brain still skipping gears. 

“Because I'm trying to take you out. On a date.”

Okay, yes, Steve has become one of his closest friends over the last five months, and yes, sometimes Eddie flirts with him because he's a red blooded American faggot and Steve is smoking hot, but never in ten thousand years would Eddie predict this happening. It doesn't make sense. 

“Date?” He chokes out. 

“Is that okay?” Steve asks, soft, nervous. 

It's so okay Eddie can't fathom it. “Uh huh.” 

“Cool. I'll swing by at eight?”

“Cool.”

“Awesome. See you in a bit.”

And then, just before Steve hangs up, he hears it, the thing that makes everything that came before it suddenly make sense. 

Laughter. Robin's donkey braying laughter, coupled with cheers from at least three other people. 

So yeah. That checks out. It hasn't happened in years, not since middle school, before Eddie got too scary for girls to fuck with, but it's not the first time someone got dared to ask Eddie out. 

He slips down the wall and lands with a thud on the linoleum, cold water seeping through his veins as the implications become clear. The people he thought were his friends got together, without him, and thought it would be hilarious to dare Steve to ask him out. And he did it. He actually did it. And Robin! Her being in on it is almost worse. He really thought better of her, queer geek solidarity and all that. 

Has every interaction with these people been fake? Why bother? It doesn't make sense, but then again, he'd only recently let his guard down, started to believe they really liked him, wanted him around. It never made any sense that they liked him in the first place, Steve especially, he'd been wondering when the other shoe would drop and now here it is. Sort of wishes they'd just left him alone after everything and not gotten him attached like he is. It hurts. Logically, he knows he'll be fine, he has Wayne and the CC boys and some casual friends in Indy, he'll be okay, but it still hurts. 

What if this forces Dustin and the other kids to pick sides? He doesn't want that. Maybe he should just bite the bullet and move away, make the decision easier for them. It's about time anyway. He'll need to borrow some money from somewhere to fund the move but-

A knock on the door startles him out of his spiral and he jumps up on instinct. The clock on the stove says it's 7:55. He's been staring at the wall for two hours. A second knock snaps him out of another spiral.

“Jesus Christ,” he snaps upon seeing Steve Harrington at his door, dressed to kill. What a waste.

Steve's still lovely face drops as he takes in Eddie's ire. “What's wrong?”

“What's wrong?” His voice grates. “How fucking far were you planning on taking this bit? Bucket of pigs blood rigged at the diner? Maybe you drive me thirty miles outside of town and leave me there? What?”

Steve looks equal parts confused and horrified. Caught out too early to satisfy the parameters of the bet no doubt. “Eddie…”

“Save it. Take your gas station flowers and fuck off.” He slams the door behind him, it gives a satisfying crash, much better than the trailer's old door. 

He stands on the other side of it, not sure what to do with himself, when he hears a pathetic, “No, no, no, no,” and, “I don't understand,” and, “Eddie. Please.”

“Fuck! Off!” He yells at the door. If he has to endure any more manipulation he might actually get violent. Wouldn't be the first time he thought about attacking Steve Harrington. The anger is good, he needs it. As long as he's angry he isn't thinking about how bad it hurts. 

A minute goes by without a peep from Steve, but he also hasn't heard a car door slam or start up or drive away. Eddie slinks over to the porch window and peeks out. Steve is just sitting bent over on the top step, both hands in his hair, stupid bouquet of flowers at his side. The sight twinges in Eddie's guts, something like guilt squirming around inside. He doesn't want to acknowledge it but it gets harder to ignore the longer he watches Steve, alone and practically curled up on the stoop. What would be the purpose of that if he only came as a joke? He assumes maybe Steve is just upset that he didn't get to pull off his probable months in the making scheme but…the longer he watches the harder it gets to convince himself that's what's happening. 

Steve is crying. He can tell by the uneven breaths he's taking. The odds are getting slimmer that this is some manipulative tactic. If Steve is genuinely upset Eddie can't just ignore it. 

He opens the door. 

Steve immediately scrambles to wipe the evidence off his face, which is gut wrenching. If he's still faking he deserves an Oscar. 

He doesn't turn when Eddie approaches and sits gingerly at his side. He doesn't try to provocate, just sniffs as quietly as he can with his face turned away.

Eddie, for his part, doesn't know what to do next. His anger has left him, which was the only thing keeping him afloat. He suddenly wishes he hadn't left his cigs on the coffee table.

“I'm not sure what happened between when I called and now but I'm sorry. I didn't mean to upset you.” He turns toward Eddie but doesn't make eye contact. “If you changed your mind, that's…fine, I guess. But please don't be mad at me. I don't think I can take that right now.”

Guess we're hashing this out.

“What happened was I heard everyone at your place having a laugh at my expense. Did you think I wouldn't figure out what that meant? You're not the first person to ask me out as a joke. Amy Johnston asked me to the Snow Ball as a dare in the 8th grade.”

There's that horrified look again. He reaches out like he wants to touch Eddie's knee but Eddie startles so badly he wrenches his hand back. 

“You can't think I would do that.”

“I can and I do.” His fingers are itching for that cigarette.

“Eddie. Please look at me.” 

He does but only because Steve sounds like he's on the verge of a nervous breakdown. His wet, puppy dog eyes are going to be the last thing Eddie's sees before he dies, he just knows it.

“They weren't laughing at you. They were laughing at me. That wasn't a prank at your expense, it was a fucking intervention, for me to pull my head out of my ass.” He stares at Eddie with his wide, imploring eyes. “I swear to you. On Dustin's mom.”

Eddie's cheek twitches. “If Claudia drops dead you've gotta raise Henderson yourself, you know that, right?”

“Gladly.” He gives one big sniff, done with hiding how fucked up this has made him. “Rob was laughing because she was happy, and everyone else was cheering because they were proud of me, that's literally it. ‘Finally ask Eddie on a date’ mission was a success. Until, you know, this part. I'm sorry you thought we would do something like that to you. Did we…or did I maybe, do something to make you think we weren't friends?”

Now Eddie is crying. He should just dig a hole and lay down in it. 

“Hey,” Steve scoots over and timidly places a hand over Eddie's clenching fingers, “it's okay. You don't have to tell me. I just want to make sure you know we love you. I don't want you to ever think otherwise.”

Okay, not helping with the waterworks.

“It's not your fault,” he manages to convey between hiccups. “I'm just an asshole who assumes the worst in people.”

Steve's thumb rubs gently over Eddie's wrist bone. “For good reason. I get it, you haven't had a lot of people in your corner, huh?”

He shakes his head, hyper aware that he's dribbling snot.

“Hey,” he pats Eddie's arm, pulling away slowly, “why don't we just stay in, order a pizza?”

Eddie sniffs, nods. Date canceled then. Good job, Munson. 

“I'll dump these,” Steve picks up the flowers, “don't know what I was thinking. Dating mode autopilot I guess.”

Eddie, feeling hysterical, lunges for them. “No! They're mine!” He crushes the bouquet to his chest. He's imprinted on them. If they disappear, any chance he has of going back to date mode will disappear with them. 

Steve stares at him, eyes ping-ponging up and down from the flowers to Eddie's face. He probably thinks Eddie has gone mental, and he'd be right. He hides his face in the purple and orange petals, destroying them irreparably no doubt. One would think he would be all cried out but he's been mainlining mountain dew all day so he must be extra hydrated.

“Eds. What's wrong?”

“Besides the obvious?!” He screeches, still hiding. 

“Yeah.”

“I fucked it up. You actually wanted to date me and I fucked it up.” 

Without warning, Steve has him bundled up against his chest, flowers crushed even more between them. “You didn't fuck it up. I just didn't think you'd want to go out tonight, after all this. It can still be a date if you want. An inside date.”

“If I want? You are certifiable, of course I want,” he mumbles into Steve's perfect tits. “I can't believe you want. You were really brave and I yelled at you.”

“Already forgiven.”

“You look really nice and I look like a hobo.”

“No more than usual.”

That startles a laugh out of Eddie. He smacks Steve on one of his perfect tits. His face is probably a lost cause but he does attempt to mop it up. “Sorry I made you cry.”

“Pfft,” he waves that off as though it were nothing, “for about three minutes I thought I'd let my friends talk me into blowing up one of my favorite relationships, that's all I cared about, really. If you're not mad at me I'm good as new.” He gets all sheepish for a second. “Also I've been crying off and on all day. Those assholes showed up at my door at ten am. I sobbed for forty five minutes over that time I called Johnathan a queer.”

“You said what?” King Steve shit, Eddie imagines.

“Yeah, and a lot worse than that too, if you can imagine. Don't worry, he beat my ass good over it. And he says we're square since he banged Nancy while we were technically still together.”

Eddie boggles at the ease with which all of this is said. Killing monsters really puts some shit into perspective, he supposes.

He glances up when Steve stands, brushing his hands off on his skin tight jeans before holding one out for Eddie to take. 

“C'mon. Inside date. We'll do a redo of outside date next weekend.”

He lets Steve pull him up. “Okay. You gotta let me get the pizza though.”

He beams at Eddie, sunshine incarnate. “Deal.” 

It occurs to Eddie, as he pulls a huge plastic Pacers cup out of the cupboard to put his flowers in, that Steve Harrington actually likes him. Romantically. Even though Eddie is a big dumbass. 

“Hey,” he drawls.

Steve glances over from where he's artfully posed at the opposite counter. “Mmm?”

“We should probably make out.”

Steve matches Eddie's casual statement, only failing where his cheeks are going red. “Oh yeah?” 

“Yeah. I'd hate to waste all this time and money just to find out on the third date we're not compatible. Sexually.” 

Steve, who has never been shy about flirting, slinks over to him, fingers travel lightly over the cut collar of his Megadeath T-shirt, sending Eddie's heart into overdrive. “You're so right. Couch or bed?”

They never do manage to call for pizza.

[nataliescatorccioapologist]

What I think each Yellowjackets character’s Letterboxd top 4 would be

*I’m including movies past the 90s even though some of these characters didn’t live long enough to see them*

Natalie

I think Nat is a huge horror movie fan (specifically 80s slasher and demonic possession) and loves edgy gothic vibes. I also think she would love some artsy indie movies about sex and challenging gender roles (and just some cool action movies with hot badass women).

Honorable mentions go to The Craft and Kill Bill

Misty

We all know Misty is a theater kid. She loves musicals and I think girlie is definitely singing Sweeney Todd and Phantom of the Opera songs to herself 24/7. And I feel like I don’t even need to explain the Steel Magnolias inclusion, she had that monologue memorized like it was imprinted on her soul.

Honorable mentions go to Hairspray and Hamilton

Jackie

I know Jackie loves a good chick flick, particularly those with homoerotic subtexts. I think, if she had gotten to live long enough to start coming to terms with her sexuality, But I’m a Cheerleader would definitely be her gay awakening. And then Bottoms once she’s tip-toed out of the closet a little bit more (RIP Jackie Taylor you would have LOVED Bottoms). And of course, I had to add Beaches because of the “Are you quoting Beaches at me right now?” line, and also because I think Jackie would watch it and shed a secret tear because it makes her think of her and Shauna.

Honorable mentions go to Uptown Girls and Heathers

Van

Van would definitely refuse to watch anything past the 90s. She loves comedy classics and queer staples. I know Van quotes The Godfather in the full Italian accent constantly (especially around Nat to piss her off) and she’s watched The Princess Bride an ungodly amount of times and knows pretty much every line (Buttercup was her queer awakening).

Shauna

Like Jackie, Shauna love movies about intense (homoerotic) friendships. I know she relates to Needy in Jennifer’s Body living in Jennifer’s (Jackie’s) shadow and resenting her for it but also being so obsessed and intertwined with her; and she also just loves the visuals and its satire on female exploitation. Shauna maybe relates to and roots for Pearl a little too much, she loves a movie about a woman desperate for recognition and teetering on the edge of insanity while maintaining a sweet and innocent facade. Also I can see adult Shauna in particular just being charmed by Little Women (partly because of the love triangle but mostly because of the womanhood and female friendship themes).

Honorable mentions go to Juno and Scream

Also side note: I feel like Shauna would love Daria, but it’s a TV show so I didn’t include it.

Laura Lee

Laura Lee loves uplifting and wholesome movies. I can see her shamelessly liking kid’s movies well into adulthood. She likes movies centered around helping people in need like The Rescuers or going through hardship and discovering faith like Soul Surfer. Girl is religious-religious so her favorites are definitely going to be centered around faith and Christianity. But she also just likes a simple feel-good film; the cheesiest, sappiest movies you can imagine.

Lottie

Okay Lottie was hard to pinpoint but I’m pretty sure she would like angsty, artsy shit. Like, in high school, she would pretend to love chick flicks like the rest of her classmates but when she gets home she’s putting on the darkest and most depressing weird girl movie you’ve ever seen. I think she likes Suspiria for the occult themes, the otherworldly feeling of it, and eccentricities of the main character who never knows what’s real and what’s not, which she relates to. I think she likes some mental illness movies like Donnie Darko because of her diagnosis and upbringing and The Virgin Suicides because she’s lonely and feels overly-controlled by her parents. And Amelie because she once again relates to the loneliness and likes that the main character discovers her gift for helping people. I think Lottie would prioritize good cinematography and visuals in movies, too.

I don’t think Lottie would really watch movies as an adult because she would be too busy running a cult and disconnecting from society, which is why these picks are centered around Teen Lottie.

-

I couldn’t think of what Tai would like! She is a mystery to me. I can see her maybe liking something like Whiplash because she is super driven and ambitious and kind of tortures herself for success? But idk. Please comment or repost with what you think her’s would be!

[magicalmysteryperson]

About: The Hazbin Hotel (1990)

The Hazbin Hotel (1990) is a Hazbin Hotel au that answers the question:

"What if Hazbin Hotel was a quirky horror fantasy flick like Beetlejuice or Monkeybone or (insert other example here)?"

In this retake au of the titular indie webseries, we follow Maggie (this au's Vaggie), a woman who accidentally died and got sent to hell, and Adam, a douchebag who totally deserved getting sent to hell.

Hell, in this case, being a towering hotel with shifting rooms and no escape.

Those who enter the hotel can never leave.... ok there is one way of leaving.

You need to learn why you are here, change yourself for the better, and then you can leave.

The longer you stay in the hotel, the less human you become, hence why the occupants here look so... freaky.

A burlesque dancer/assassin with multiple arms and a fanged jaw...

A scientist who is also a fish....

A former tv host who is forever plugged in to the airwaves...

A moth-like pimp who smokes and eats lingerie...

A maid that eats bugs, who is also a bug...

A bombastic commander who is more snake than man and has an affinity for eggs...

A mysterious shadow that communicates via the radio....

There's even a talking cat running the casino and bar!

Will Maggie be able to check out from the hotel?

[niceonet]

TRAİLERDB - DEVASA+ (2)

As the film industry continues to evolve, sneak peeks into upcoming releases offer us a tantalizing glimpse of the stories, characters, and visual spectacles on the horizon. Whether you're a fan of thrilling blockbusters, heartwarming dramas, or spine-chilling horror flicks, there’s something for everyone to look forward to. 

New Movie Trailers

As we dive into the world of cinema, new movie trailers are a crucial part of what excites fans and sparks discussions before a film's release. Each year brings a wave of trailers that not only provide a glimpse into what to expect but also set the tone for upcoming films. From thrilling blockbusters to indie gems, the latest movie trailers give us a sneak peek into groundbreaking stories, captivating performances, and stunning visual effects.

The anticipation builds as studios release new movie trailers, often showcasing the top talents in the industry. The art of creating a compelling trailer has become a skill in itself, as filmmakers and marketing teams work diligently to distill the essence of a movie into a short, enticing clip. Whether it’s the heart-pounding action of a superhero flick or the emotional depth of a biographical drama, these clips are designed to hook audiences and keep them talking.

Every film genre has its unique traits that shine through in new movie trailers. For instance, horror films employ eerie soundscapes and unexpected jump scares, while romantic comedies highlight heartfelt moments and witty dialogue. The best trailers leave viewers wanting more, teasing just enough to spark curiosity without giving away key plot points.

Moreover, latest movie trailers are a great way to gauge audience reactions. Fans often flock to social media platforms to share their thoughts and predictions, creating a buzz that can significantly impact a film's opening weekend. Additionally, trailers can also offer retroactive enjoyment, as audiences revisit them after watching the film to appreciate the marketing and artistry involved in their creation.

With numerous film festivals and award shows showcasing new movie trailers, the excitement only amplifies. Events like San Diego Comic-Con and the Sundance Film Festival are just a few examples where audiences are treated to exclusive previews of highly anticipated films. These moments not only build hype but also reflect the creativity and diversity of storytelling in contemporary cinema.

In conclusion, new movie trailers serve as a vital connection between filmmakers and audiences. They encapsulate the essence of what’s to come, setting the stage for cinematic experiences that captivate viewers around the globe.

New Movie Trailers 2024

As we step into 2024, the excitement for upcoming films is at an all-time high. New movie trailers are being released at a brisk pace, teasing audiences with glimpses of thrilling plots, stunning visuals, and star-studded casts. Below are some of the most anticipated new movie trailers 2024 that have already caught the attention of film enthusiasts.

1. Action-Packed Blockbusters: This year promises a wave of adrenaline-pumping action films. One of the standout new movie trailers showcases the return of a beloved franchise, with high-octane sequences that leave viewers at the edge of their seats. Expect epic battles, mind-bending stunts, and heart-stopping suspense.

2. Exciting Adaptations: Fans of literature and comics will not be disappointed, as several new movie trailers reveal adaptations of popular books and graphic novels. The trailers give us a sneak peek into how filmmakers are bringing these stories to life, with stunning visuals and captivating performances that honor the source material.

3. Thought-Provoking Dramas: 2024 also promises to deliver a slate of new movie trailers that focus on compelling narratives and character-driven stories. These films address contemporary issues and human experiences, showcasing talented actors in powerful roles that are sure to leave a lasting impression.

4. Family-Friendly Flicks: There’s something for everyone in the upcoming year, with new movie trailers featuring animated films and family comedies. These trailers highlight the creativity and humor that make them perfect for audiences of all ages, filled with endearing characters and heartwarming stories.

5. Highly Anticipated Sequels: Fans of franchise films will be delighted to see the new movie trailers for sequels that expand on beloved stories. With returning characters and fresh plotlines, these films promise to deliver the nostalgia and excitement that fans crave.

In conclusion, 2024 is shaping up to be a remarkable year for cinema, with a variety of new movie trailers set to ignite the passion of moviegoers around the globe. Stay tuned as more trailers drop and the release dates approach, because this year is sure to be unforgettable!

Latest Movie Trailers

As movie lovers know, the excitement for a new release often begins with the unveiling of its trailer. The latest movie trailers give us a glimpse into upcoming films that promise to captivate audiences and spark conversations. With a wide array of genres, these trailers highlight the creativity and talent of filmmakers, showcasing their unique storytelling approaches.

This year, we have seen some incredible trailers that have set high expectations for moviegoers. From thrilling action sequences to heartfelt dramas, the latest film previews provide tantalizing sneak peeks into the narratives we can expect to enjoy on the big screen. Movies like Dune: Part Two and Killers of the Flower Moon have already generated a buzz through their stunning visuals and compelling storylines presented in their latest trailers.

One of the most exciting aspects of latest movie trailers is seeing our favorite actors and directors return to the forefront of cinematic storytelling. Not only do the trailers highlight their impressive performances, but they also give insight into the dedicated craftsmanship behind the scenes. Whether it's a gripping suspense thriller or a light-hearted comedy, the trailers are carefully crafted to deliver maximum impact and entice audiences.

In addition to the theatrical trailers, some films also offer teaser trailers, creating an air of mystery and anticipation. These short clips foster an engaging conversation among fans, fueling speculation about plot details and character arcs. Social media platforms have become a hub for sharing these insights, leading to a vibrant fan community eager to discuss the nuances observed in the latest clips.

As we venture further into 2024, the influx of new movie trailers continues to build excitement for the upcoming releases. Movies such as Ghostbusters: Afterlife 2 and The Marvels are generating significant hype, with trailers that showcase not just the actors but also the innovative special effects that cinema has to offer. This wave of new trailers keeps audiences engaged and eager for more.

Stay tuned as we anticipate the release of these films. The latest movie trailers are just the beginning of what promises to be an exhilarating journey through the world of cinema.

[destinygoldenstar]

What Separates Digital Circus’s Horror From Others

Disturbing.

Unnerving.

TERRIFYING.

BUT WHY?!

On the surface to the… five people that never watched The Amazing Digital Circus Pilot, this show looks like a Five Nights At Freddy’s knock off.

It’s a cute mascot show that is actually secretly a horror monster infested world.

Even people who haven’t seen FNAF at least seen a few clips of it and what it’s famous for. I know I have.

My sister is super into this, and she hogs the TV, so… RIP me.

That’s what most non-horror stans usually view horror as.

The jumpscares.

The unnerving imagery.

The designs made to freak out the viewers and make them uncomfortable.

It’s usually quite obvious when something is a horror, cause these aspects are often front and center. You can usually tell it’s a trailer of a horror movie by just looking at it.

At least, from my, a non-horror lover’s understanding. For some reason these sorts of things, especially indie animated ones, are the faces of a lot of content farms.

If the product itself isn’t r@%ing your audience, it’s those.

(TAKE MY WARNING AND TAKE IT SERIOUSLY: IF YOU VALUE YOUR MENTAL HEALTH AND YOUR SANITY, DO NOT LOOK UP THIS MOVIE)

BUT BACK ON SUBJECT.

Digital Circus… doesn’t really have this stuff.

There’s no jumpscares.

(I mean there is in a trailer, but it’s used as a joke.)

The character designs are very cute looking without any alternate versions that are scary.

And the imagery of the show remains cute and fun all throughout. The darkest it gets is in a realistic looking office.

But there are no jumpscares in that scene.

It’s just… a normal office.

If this was a horror, then perfect opportunity, right?

So… what’s going on here?

This, my friends, is why Digital Circus is not your typical indie animated horror flick.

And why people even call it ‘scary’ at all.

Here’s the trick this show uses.

It’s not the imagery.

It’s not the designs.

It’s not even intentionally trying to scare you.

Caine is not intentionally trying to scare the audience. He’s just acting like an A.I.

Yeah he has SOME unnerving moments.

But compared to THIS:

I’d say Caine is pretty tame.

Maybe it’s an indicator that he’s secretly a monster like the Other Mother in Coraline.

That horror flick is about the host lying to the protagonist and revealing their horror-like appearance later on.

But not only was it confirmed that Caine is NOT evil. But look at his design right away and his presentation.

There is no sign so far that he lies about anything. At least not what he doesn’t know.

Yes he lied about the exit. But the exit ITSELF was the thing that sent you to the VOID. So really he kinda tried to protect them.

If he didn’t, he’d let jester girl eject herself like Among Us.

So why is it unnerving?

Because it’s the POV we the audience are in for most of the episode: Pomni.

Pomni is an Audience Surrogate.

Audience Surrogates are characters designed specifically to be a placeholder for the audience.

People usually assume this trope as the character made to be the bland and generic one. But that’s actually not true.

An audience surrogate can be as simple as a First Person POV. As all it means is that the character is designed to have the same reactions the audience would in the situation they would find themselves in.

Course, not speaking for everybody, but majority that would consume the content.

Thus, with Pomni as the audience surrogate, we the audience are thrusted into her shoes the whole time. We feel the fear she does. We are experiencing the circus the same time she does.

Notice the editing in some scenes. Specifically the scenes Pomni is NOT in.

When Pomni is in a scene, there’s usually some change in lighting or camera movement that’s unnerving.

But when she isn’t in a scene, these editing moves aren’t there at all.

Which makes it pretty easy to suggest that these unnerving edits are just what’s going on in Pomni’s head.

So with that, when she’s scared. We’re scared. We’re in her POV.

But she’s scared all the time. That’s just her average personality, right?

Then why make these specific edits?

Let’s think about this:

This character is trapped in a world that isn’t her own. Everything is unusual, and she wants out. But instantly realizes there’s no escape.

And then gets told this is her new home and her new body.

A home she doesn’t recognize. And a body she doesn’t even know the name of.

She lost all sense of identity in an instant. Losing everything about herself in an instant. To the point where she can’t even remember what she was before.

And to make matters worse, because this is unusual, everything SEEMS terrifying. Even to those trying to help her adjust.

The only way out of such a confusing and terrifying world is to escape. Which is what she tries to find the entire time.

So THEREFORE:

The horror is this show is NOT the jumpscares or the creepy images.

The horror is THE VIEWER’S MIND.

This show constantly destroys your mind and breaks you through Pomni.

The idea of losing everything about yourself and being trapped in something unfamiliar forever. That IS terrifying.

If you were in this situation, you’d probably freak out even if you were the bravest being ever.

So it’s not about how scary the scene is on the outside.

It’s about what you’re THINKING that’s scary.

Ragatha’s distress monologue is not scary on the outside. But if you actually take into consideration what she says.

THATS terrifying.

That toys with your mind. And it also toys with Pomni’s.

The monster figure in the episode, the abstraction, is nowhere near as scary as something from FNAF

At least in my opinion.

Especially seeing what the monster does.

It can’t kill you. You’re just glitched.

Or maybe it CAN kill. But we never see that.

Even if Pomni ended up like Ragatha, Caine would’ve eventually came back, found them, and fixed them. And they would’ve been fine.

But then, rather out of nowhere, she STOPS.

And we get this shot.

I talked about this shot before. Said it quickly became one of my favorite shots in media.

This is why.

This shot makes me queasy every time.

The idea of looking in a mirror and not even being able to process or recognize yourself. Unable to even process your own reflection, that’s how unrecognizable you’ve become.

That’s horrifying.

And there’s no dialogue here either.

The episode effectively uses SHOW DONT TELL.

They SHOW you how scary the situation is. They SHOW you a single image that tells you everything.

It would’ve been so easy to just have Pomni say “I’m scared. I don’t recognize myself. Who is this person looking back at me?”

But no

They DON’T insult their audience.

They don’t TELL you.

They let you sink it in yourself.

Pomni doesn’t even have ANY lines after she goes through the exit door. And yet the shots after that with her have been plastered everywhere. Why? Cause she doesn’t need to tell you her mental state. You’re SHOWN it.

Can someone PLEASE tell the live action Avatar The Last Airbender that?!

Speaking of the office scene. This is the only moment in the show that looks… real. Not that cartoony.

Which I guess being in a setting that’s off putting from the rest makes it creepy, right?

Well not really.

Sure she’s running through rooms that seem to be repeating, which that of itself is sanity breaking. It reminds me a lot of another existential horror: The Stanley Parable.

But while that game is excellent and the monologue that plays in that ending is one of my favorites, it IS just telling you the sanity of the player.

Not that there’s anything wrong with this in that games style. There’s no other way that could’ve been done in that game.

Here, again, there’s no dialogue. It’s just Pomni running through these desperate for the exit.

The scary part about this is that we KNOW the absolute DESPERATION she has.

Even if we couldn’t see her face, that’s still across because we’ve seen it the entire episode.

And then there’s her break.

She snaps at the sight of a desk, and gets fangs, that of a FNAF character. But only for a second. She doesn’t even go out at the camera with them. She goes on her merry way.

But Pomni, being the POV character, really doesn’t have much to be scared at about her.

So why is this terrifying? Why not go all the way if this is supposed to be a jumpscare?

Well cause it’s not.

A way to scare your audience is to make them feel dread. Lingering longing dread. Sometimes irrational dread.

People with anxiety especially get scared at things even when they’re completely safe. They feel an unease in their stomachs. They feel unable to move. Unable to speak. Unable to put it into words at all.

It could be because we saw something unnerving that stays in our subconscious. It could be because we’re nervous about something coming up. It could be because we’re in an uncomfortable situation.

Either way, anything even remotely resembling that triggering thing can break someone to feel this anxiety. Sometimes even something as simple as the dark. Even if we know we’re completely safe.

(Speaking as a person with anxiety myself)

She only snaps and cackles when she sees a random desk with a computer. Which also has the headset she put on there. The thing that got her in this.

But you might not have even seen the headset on your first viewing. I didn’t.

But your subconscious sees it. The environment not being like the others aids in unnerving you and making it hard to process what you’re looking at.

Why is this terrifying? Why does it break you? Why does it mentally break Pomni? We don’t know. It just does.

We’ve been stuck going through doors in repeating rooms for hours.

Fear makes you not able to overthink it.

So all of that is build up to the near perfect shot of Pomni at the brink of snapping at the dinner table. With the others voices blurred in her mind. As all she can do is fake a smile.

Terrifying End.

It’s not scary because it’s scary. It’s scary because it toys with the character, and the viewer’s mind

Now, is Digital Circus the first media to do this technique?

No. Not at all.

One of the most acclaimed animated movies, Spirited Away, also uses these exact same tactics for example.

That’s obviously a master class at this tactic. And it scared me as a child as a result. For all these exact same reasons.

It’s not a horror. Not traditionally. It’s not trying to scare you. But it does anyway cause in your mind it’s a scary concept.

And also, well, Spirited Away is a completed story as of the time this post comes out.

And Digital Circus only has one episode. But we did get confirmation this would be a series. And I personally have high hopes that this brilliant tactic is kept. From the trailer, it does seem like they’re not forgetting the stuff I bring up here. So I hope this works out for the creators despite the drama and the internet BS surrounding this show.

But even if not, we at least get one case in this show where we all want to curl up in a ball and cry

Us too Pomni. Us too.

Thank you for reading my… analysis a ton of people made before me, and probably better. Happy day for you all.

[ghosttotheparty]

Can you do Nr. 51.  “If this was a romantic comedy, we would’ve kissed by now.” for Steddie?

almost squealed out loud when i read this prompt it’s so cute cw: mention of drug use

51. If this was a romantic comedy, we would’ve kissed by now. (also changed this slightly to fit) dialogue prompts!!

“When’d my life turn into a fuckin’ horror movie?”

Steve looks up at Eddie’s voice, finding him pulling the laces of his shoes tighter, his hair hiding his face. When his laces are done he falls back in his seat, leaning against the wall, looking outside at where the others are still… Preparing, Steve guesses, is the best word for it.

The kids are figuring out the spears and shields, Nancy is showing Robin how to shoot the sawed-off shotgun. Just in case.

“That’s a good question,” Steve mutters, following his gaze to watch.

“Looks like… some kinda indie movie,” Eddie says, watching as Max makes fun of Lucas and Erica laughs, pointing at him.

“One with a happy ending?” Steve asks softly.

“…Yeah.”

“We’ll go with that, then.”

Steve reaches down to tighten his shoelaces again. Just because.

“If this were a chick flick you’d be back with Wheeler already,” Eddie says snarkily, and Steve suppresses an eye-roll.

“Good thing it’s not a chick flick, then,” he mutters.

“I thought you liked her,” Eddie says, leaning back comfortably, like they’re best buds, just hanging out, instead of preparing to fight to prevent the end of the world.

“Yeah, I did,” Steve says. “Past tense.”

“Uh-huh,” Eddie says doubtfully.

“She’s cool,” Steve says, re-tying his shoes after tangling the laces. “But we’re… we wouldn’t work out. We’re friends.”

“Uh-huh.” He sounds less doubtful.

“And don’t even start telling me to ask Robin out,” Steve says, exasperated. “Dustin will not leave me alone about that.”

He expected a Why not? but Eddie just laughs in a way that makes his nose scrunch up adorably.

“Nah, I wouldn’t do that,” Eddie says. “I gotta feeling you’re not really her type.”

Steve snorts.

“Definitely not.”

He finishes with his laces, sighing and leaning back. They’re quiet for a moment, like neither of them wants to leave.

“If you could pick a movie genre for your life,” Eddie says, “what would you pick?”

“Uhm.” Steve sighs. “Maybe comedy.”

“Eh.” Eddie makes a face. Steve laughs softly.

“What’s wrong with comedy?”

“Nothing,” Eddie says. “But so much of it is based on, like, embarrassing moments. I think if my life was a comedy, I’d wanna kill myself.”

Steve laughs again, shifting in his seat.

“What would you choose, then?”

Eddie looks up at him, staring blankly, quietly, his eyes flicking across Steve’s face for a moment, and curiosity builds in Steve’s chest.

“Maybe one of those weird art films,” Eddie says finally, but Steve feel like he’s lying. “That doesn’t really make any sense. No plot.”

“That’s what you’d want your life to be?”

Eddie shrugs.

“Kinda feels like that’s what my life already is.”

Steve laughs softly, turning back to look out the window. Dustin and Lucas are sword fighting with the spears as Max and Erica watch, shaking their heads, probably calling them nerds. Robin and Nancy are chucking pine cones at a tree, aiming for something Steve can’t see from here.

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “Me too.”

Eddie moves to sit next to him, looking out the window, watching the kids with a soft smile on his face.

“We can make it something else,” he says softly. “Some kinda fantasy, sci-fi… something.”

“One where the good guys win,” Steve adds quietly, tracing Eddie’s profile with his eyes. The bridge of his nose, the curve of his eyelashes, his lips.

Eddie’s smile widens as he watches the kids before he looks at Steve, meeting his eyes.

“Yeah,” he says. “One where the good guys win.”

Steve sighs. He wants to fall against him, to bury his face in his neck and hold him close until everything passes them by. Until it’s all over.

But he can’t do that.

“Well,” he says quietly, clapping Eddie on the back and standing. “Into battle, then.”

—————————

The bandage on Eddie’s cheek itches.

It’s driving him a little crazy, but he doesn’t touch it. He’s sitting on his own hands.

The hallway he’s in is almost silent, except for the ticking of the clock on the wall and the quiet, muffled, distant noises of the hospital. And Steve’s and Robin’s breathing.

Steve’s back and arms are covered in bandages too. He’s wearing a sweatshirt now, one that they got from Eddie’s trailer before they were taken to the hospital by some government people. Eddie doesn’t know what’s happening, but he doesn’t bother asking. He’ll find out if he has to.

Eddie ignores the way he feels about Steve wearing his sweatshirt.

Eddie’s sides are sore from the stitches, and he’s eaten three blueberry muffins so the painkillers he took don’t make him loopy, but he still feels unsteady, shaky. He blinks slowly when the floor starts to swim.

“We won,” he says quietly. His voice still echoes around the hallway. “Right?”

“Yeah, Eddie,” Robin says. “We won.”

Eddie exhales, leaning back in his seat, moving his hands, and he starts to reach for his cheek before he stops himself. Robin notices it too and grabs his hand gently, holding it. It’s quiet for another few moments.

And then a laugh bursts out of Steve.

Eddie snorts, looking around Robin at him.

“The fuck is so funny?”

“I don’t know,” he says, laughing again, shaking his head. “We fucking won. Holy shit.”

“Yeah,” Robin says, staring wide-eyed at the ground, nodding. “Holy shit.”

Steve takes her other hand. Eddie lays his head on her shoulder, sighing.

“Mr Harrington?” a woman’s voice says after a long while, and an old nurse comes through the door to the empty hall, finding the three of them. She gives Steve a friendly smile. “I’ve been asked to give you a hearing and vision test.”

“Oh,” Steve says. “You don’t… need to do that.”

“I’m afraid we don’t have a choice,” she says, making a sympathetic face. “Orders from Dr Owens. Concussions can cause issues with hearing and vision, and we know you’ve had your fair share.”

Steve stares at her, and she stares back. Eddie wonders if she has grandchildren to practice dealing with stubborn patients. Robin pushes at Steve.

“Go, get it over with.”

Steve huffs, getting up to follow her out. Eddie hears him tell her, “I don’t need glasses,” before the door shuts behind them. Robin puts her head on Eddie’s.

After a while, the door opens again and Max appears, her left arm in a cast.

“Hey, Red,” Eddie says softly. “What’s up?”

“Uh.” She takes a breath, looking away anxiously. “My mom’s on her way.”

“Everything okay?” Robin asks.

“Yeah, I just…” She looks away again. “I don’t really wanna be alone.”

“You want me to wait with you?” Robin asks. Eddie sits up straight as Max nods. “Will you wait for Steve?” she asks Eddie.

“Yeah, ‘course.”

Eddie watches them go, watches Robin wrap an arm around Max’s shoulders before the door shuts behind them. The hallway falls silent again. He sticks his hands under his thighs.

And he waits. Listens to the ticking of the clock, to his own breathing, closing his eyes and letting his head rest against the wall. He only opens them when the door opens again, and Steve comes over to sit heavily in the seat Robin sat in before she left.

“I need glasses.”

A laugh bursts out of Eddie.

“Seriously?”

“Yeah.”

Eddie laughs again and looks at the floor as Steve lets his head rest against the wall.

“Where’s Robin?”

“She went with Max— Wait a fucking second.”

“Hm?”

“This whole time, you haven’t been able to see?” Eddie says loudly.

“I can see,” Steve says defensively, lifting his head but still slouching. “Just not well.”

“Oh my god.”

“Or hear very well. My left ear isn’t good, apparently.”

“Holy shit.”

“‘S fine.”

Steve sighs, looking up at the ceiling. Eddie lets it go even though he desperately wants to know why Steve hasn’t done anything about either of these things. There’s no way he just… hasn’t noticed.

“Where’d Max and Robin go?” Steve asks.

“Uh, Max’s mom is on her way here. Might be here already, I don’t know. Max didn’t wanna be alone.”

Steve nods quietly.

“Where are your parents, Harrington?” Eddie asks, copying him, leaning against the wall, still looking at him.

He shrugs.

“God knows,” he says quietly. “They didn’t tell me this time.”

“Jesus,” Eddie breathes. “You know where they’re coming back?”

Steve shakes his head slowly, his eyes trained unblinkingly on the ground.

“Gonna be a bitch when they do, though,” he says softly. “Last time they were here, I…” He takes a breath. “I heard them talking about selling the house.”

“Like… the house?”

Steve nods.

“Which means,” he says, “I’ll need to find a place to live. Hopefully they leave me some money for an apartment or something, because…” He shakes his head.

“Jesus.”

“Yeah.” He pauses. “Sometimes it’s like… like they’ve forgotten I even exist.”

Eddie listens, shifting in his seat to face him.

“They don’t say hi when they come home, they don’t tell me when they’re going when they leave, or where they’re going, or how long they’ll be gone, and sometimes I wonder if they come home and like… wonder whose car is in the driveway. Wonder who’s been using the kitchen or… or doing laundry.”

“Steve,” Eddie starts quietly, but Steve keeps talking.

“Wonder if they’ve just… like, suppressed their memories of me on purpose. If they know I’m just a fuck up so they pretend I don’t exist.”

“Steve,” Eddie snaps. Steve blinks, looking up at home, his cheeks flushing like he’s just realised he’s talking out loud. Eddie softens. “Thought you were done with all that King Steve shit.”

Steve blinks again, this time in confusion.

“Huh?”

Eddie sighs.

“If you’re… turning over a new leaf. Being a better person. You gotta be nicer to yourself too.” He looks into Steve’s eyes. “You’re not a fuck up.”

Steve looks away.

“Habits are hard to beat.”

“You’re telling the Hawkins local druggie habits are hard to beat?” Eddie says, smiling.

“Thought you were the dealer.”

“Yeah, now.” Eddie shifts in his seat. “Everything I’ve sold, I’ve used. Some are hard to kick.” He pauses, his voice quieting. “Why do you think I’m twenty-one, in high school, and living with my uncle in a trailer park?”

Steve is quiet for a moment before,

“This is a depressing movie.”

Eddie laughs, almost giggling, squeezing his eyes shut. His cheek hurts.

“Yeah,” he says. “It is.”

“Why are we still here?” Steve asks, looking around the hallway. “Should we go somewhere?”

“Yeah, I think this hallway is sucking our souls out.”

“C’mon,” Steve says, standing up, and Eddie starts to follow, but he probably should have had more water, or more blueberry muffins, or something, because his vision goes dark after a second as he’s stepping forward, and he hears Steve’s voice say something before he’s falling over and Steve is catching him, stumbling and falling to ground with Eddie in his arms.

“Fuck!” Steve says sharply, and Eddie groans loudly, pain zipping through his whole body as they hit the floor.

“I’m sorry,” he says weakly, trying to sit up as he feels Steve’s chest rise and fall, because fuck, Steve is crying and it’s Eddie’s fault, and shit, Eddie can’t get up, and Steve is…

Laughing.

“Steve?”

“God, that fucking hurt,” Steve says, still laughing, his arms around Eddie as Eddie rests on top of him.

“Why are you laughing?” Eddie questions, but he can’t help but start to giggle too.

“I don’t know,” Steve laughs. “I have no idea.”

Eddie snorts and lets his head fall to Steve’s chest, both of them shaking as they laugh.

“There’s something wrong with us,” Eddie says, wincing as his sides hurt again.

“Definitely,” Steve says, a hand running over Eddie’s back gently.

Gently. So gently that it makes Eddie want to cry even as he giggles.

They hold each other as they laugh, Eddie’s arms finding their way around Steve’s neck after a few moments, their legs twining, and it all suddenly comes crashing down around Eddie.

That they made it. They’re okay. They fucking won.

When they finally stop laughing Eddie lifts his head from where it’s resting on Steve’s chest, and he looks down at him. Steve’s eyes are shining with tears, and his cheeks are rosy, and his hair is fanned out on the white floor under them. And Eddie feels himself fall in love.

“Oh,” Steve breathes, his smile faltering, his eyes widening.

“What?” Eddie whispers.

“Uhm.” Steve’s throat bobs as he swallows. “Remember how I… can’t see super well?”

“Yeah?”

Eddie realises how close they are.

“You’re really pretty,” Steve says softly, a hand finding Eddie’s cheek carefully over the bandage.

Eddie’s cheeks flush with heat and he just… looks at him. At his wet eyelashes and red cheeks and the moles that are scattered across his skin. Eddie wants to count them. He wants to kiss them.

He doesn’t realise how long he’s been staring until Steve speaks.

“If this was a romantic comedy, we’d kiss right now.”

His voice is soft. Eddie melts.

“Only if one of us was a girl.”

Steve gives him an eye roll so powerful Eddie is surprised it doesn’t cause an earthquake.

“Can you shut your cynical heart up?” Steve says quietly. One of his hands moves to push Eddie’s hair back. “Pretend they make movies about people like us.”

Eddie leans his head down, his eyes trained on Steve’s lips. They’re pink. How are they so pink?

“Do we have to be in a movie?” he asks quietly, his eyes fluttering shut when Steve’s hand pushes into his hair. “Wouldn’t real life be better?”

Steve pulls him down a little more by the back of his head.

“Yeah,” he breathes. “It would.”

Eddie kisses him.

Softly. Carefully.

Gently.

Steve’s hand tightens in his hair when Eddie pulls away to take a breath, pulling him back down, and Eddie grins against his lips. Steve lets out a soft noise when Eddie slips his tongue over his lip tentatively, and he shifts then, holding Eddie in his arms as he rolls them over on the floor so Eddie is under him.

Eddie whimpers, his arms wrapping around Steve’s neck, and Steve tilts his head, kissing Eddie like he’s trying to soothe him, like kissing his mouth will heal the wounds on his sides and chest. One of his hands finds Eddie’s neck, lightly dancing over the cut that was too shallow to be bandaged. Eddie’s legs wrap around his hips, a strangled noise escaping him.

“Okay?” Steve gasps breathlessly, looking down at him.

“Mhmm.”

Eddie pulls him back down, kissing him hard, furrowing his brows and squeezing his eyes shut, letting his mouth fall open for Steve’s tongue, but they rip their mouths away from each other when the door opens.

It hurts too much to scramble away, but Steve sits up a little bit, and Eddie tilts his head back to see the door upside down. Robin is standing in the doorway, blocking it from the outside hallway, staring at them.

“Why on the floor?” she asks, clearly judging them, and Steve looks down at Eddie. Their eyes meet, and then they’re laughing again, so hard Eddie’s stomach aches and even Robin starts to laugh.

“Rom-com,” Steve says when their laughing quiets, and it just sends them into another spiral. Robin just shuts the door.

[featherandferns]

30 with fluff?

30. It's impossible to say no to you.

the horror film mentioned in this is honestly scarring (but really good). it's on netflix, called gerald's game. anyway! hope this is okay!

feel free to request! - prompt list

little mouse - prompt 30

To anyone – and I mean anyone – who asked, JJ would laugh at the idea that he’s scared of horror films.

‘Those things?’ he’d guffaw. ‘They’re a whole load of crap.’

He’d claim to sleep through them. To nap away the aggravating violin music as tension builds and sit rigid like a statue during jump-scares. The Pogues weren’t really huge movie buffs as it was. They preferred to spend their time doing things rather than sitting, even if that ‘doing’ was moving their elbow up and down to funnel beer down their throats. If they ever did flick on a film, it was usually some old action movie flick. James Bond, maybe. A good stoner film goes hard too. Occasionally JJ’d be forced along to the movie theatre with Pope to see a new Marvel or Star Wars installation. They weren’t particularly bad, just not really his scene. JJ and cinema weren’t exactly a common pairing.

So, when JJ met you on the beach one time after surfing, he didn’t peg you to be a big movie goer either. The more he got to know you, the more he imagined you’d perhaps be into indie coming-of-age things. There was an aura of innocence about you. A tangy sweetness to your personality, like a granny smith apple. Bright and bubbly. The best way he could describe you to someone who didn’t know you was to say you were ‘camp counsellor material’. Approachable, friendly and fun. The kind you’d want your mama to meet and the kind your pa would be proud of.

That’s why JJ more than gladly accepted your request to watch a movie together. He’d been harbouring a crush on you since the day he accidentally crashed into you on the waves (something the Pogues teased him for relentlessly) and the opportunity to spend one-on-one time with you was not something he was going to pass up. Like I said, JJ didn’t hate movies. He just didn’t map his time around watching them.

JJ rocks up to your house with a six pack of cider and a bag of strawberry whips. He tries to keep the giddy boyish joy at bay when you casually tell him that your parents were out for the night with your younger sister. He settles onto the spot on the sofa next to you, passing you a can, wondering whether you wanted to watch that indie flick he always has floating around on his tik-tok (Lady Bug, is it? Or Lady Boy?).

“What’re we watching then?” he asks.

You tap away on the remote. “Gerald’s Game.”

“Who?”

“It’s this Stephen King horror I’ve been dying to watch since I read the book,” you say, taking a sip of your drink.

JJ frowns. Horror? You? Nah. No way. “You like horror?”

You raise a brow at him. “You don’t?”

“Don’t you think they’re kinda cheesy?”

“Not when they’re done well. Like actually good horror that doesn’t rely on stupid jump scares and scary masks,” you say. “They’re like my favourite genre.”

JJ swallows his cider down as if he’s taking medicine. Watches as you track down the movie on Netflix and click play. The only thing that has his anxiety easing is when you cuddle into his side, crossing your feet over his, outstretched on the coffee table, as if it’s the most natural thing ever.

You see, when I said that JJ would laugh at anyone who asked if he was scared of horror films, I wasn’t lying. He would. He’d shrug it off. But in reality, JJ Maybank hates horror films. He’s scared shitless of them.

As the movie progresses, JJ feels himself feeling more and more sick with anxiety. This is awful. It’s eerie and creepy and too close to something that could actually happen that it makes him feel queasy. The worst part? You don’t even seem scared! Anyone would think you’re watching a nature documentary. He’s felt you shiver a couple of times during the jump scares, but nothing like how JJ was trying to keep himself from flying out of the seat.

When your hand begins stroking at his thigh, JJ has to keep from flinching, thinking it’s the eerie bloke in the corner of the screen somehow feeling him up. That’s to say, when he realises it’s you, he gladly pulls his attention from the television to find you already looking up at him. Making out with you is a great deal anyway, but even more so when it means JJ doesn’t have to watch the film. Coaxes you into his lap as he sensually licks into your mouth, grinning against your smile as you coil your arms around his neck like a tamed viper. Some childish giddiness lit up inside him as one thought sprints through his head, the moment you rock against him: I’m kissing my crush! I’m kissing my crush!

He couldn’t tell you why he does, but JJ half opens his eyes and, for some reason, glances to the screen of the television. The main character’s driving now, the light around her unnaturally orange and pink, and she seems frantic. Then, the fucking jump scare happens.

“Little mouse.”

JJ breaks apart from you with a far-from masculine screech. You practically fall off him in shock, tumbling back into your spot on the sofa. JJ’s chest is rising and falling like he’s narrowly dodged being ploughed by a car. You stare at him a moment, regard him, then start laughing.

“JJ, are you scared?” you chuckle.

He gapes at you. “How are you not? Have we been watching the same film?”

“It’s just a dumb horror. It isn’t real.”

“It could be.”

“What, are you planning on taking your abusive husband to some random country cottage and handcuffing yourself to the bed, then have him die on top of you from a Viagra overdose?”

JJ blinks at you. Is that what the film is about? Maybe you are watching different movies…

“It’s just a dumb horror,” you repeat with a laugh.

JJ shakes his head. Somewhat shy, he confesses, “I hate horror.”

“What? Why didn’t you say so? We could’ve watched something else,” you say, sitting up, smiling at him.

Shit, you’re so pretty. JJ smiles back.

“Didn’t wanna kill the vibe,” he shrugs.

“Yeah, cause throwing me off your lap isn’t killing the vibe,” you return in a flat tone.

JJ rolls his eyes and grabs at your waist, hauling you back atop of him, making the two of you snigger like wine-drunk teenagers. He kisses at your mouth a couple of times, bumping his forehead and nose against yours.

“You could’ve just said no to the movie. We’d have watched something else. Maybe Madagascar? Or Shrek?”

JJ ignores your teasing. Kisses you again. Grins when he feels you melt into him, sighing against his mouth.

“It’s impossible to say no to you,” he tells you privately. Because it’s true. And it remains true for the rest of the time you two date.

[desognthinking]

the pier. 9.3k. (or, more from the haunted house designers au.)

ava & (her new) co. have one and a half years to construct three groundbreaking, mindblowing, prestige haunted houses around the country, all in time for halloween. this is scouting/teambuilding trip numero uno. it's not going well so far.

---

Ava sees her at the end of the pier, a dark figure in the already-dark; a smudge of barely-moving ink on the line between wind and water. Barely, indeed – wavering less than the yearning swallow and swoop of the waves interrupted by pillars of wood, and, further back, stone. 

At night, after everything’s shut, this place is quiet until the fishermen get out in the early morning. In the off-season, even more so. Rain slings down frequently, and it’s not warm enough for balmy walks by the rocks. Not many come out, if any. Ava’s one.

She calls out as she walks down the planks, only thinking belatedly that perhaps she might not want to be disturbed. Out here behind the motel, unmoving under the preliminary drizzle of rain, embraced and cocooned by temperamentally warping air. It is, after all, that tremulous transitory phase between spring and summer that borrows its faces from both, and switches its masks sharply in the slit-time of blinks.

Bian lian, Beatrice had murmured, not even looking up from her laptop. Face-changing, literally, in Sichuan opera. A flick of a wrist, a deft flourish, and an elaborate face falls and reforms in the fraction of a second. 

This was in the motel’s breakfast room, the one with the dubiously cleaned burgundy felt chairs where they served a  modest continental breakfast. Mostly cleared out after said breakfast, the air was stained with lingering cigarette smoke from the lounge next door, and the smell of cheap canned ham. The plastic display vases on each table had been stowed away, and in their meager place someone – probably Beatrice – had stuck a crinkly, disposable plastic bottle containing a bunch of freshly picked yellow flowers.

It was not an especially private space, what with the pale pink bellies sunning themselves right outside the glass panels, but it wasn’t as if the conversation had progressed to anything especially private. Legally speaking. Or productive, for that matter.

For the fast forty-five minutes Ava and Lilith had been busy prodding, pacing, and sending small metaphorical pockets of firework powder across the room to burst and splatter all over each others’ skin. Skating them like over wet ice so they would knock against each others’ ankles and bruise upon detonation. Camila, who’d been trying, at least, to keep the situation under control, had gone to pick out some maps and free guides, leaving them simmering in the quickly-warming confines of the space.

A lot of trivial inconsequential things, and a lot of hard, serrated words. First it was an argument of how transformative a depiction of folklore ought to be, theoretically, to balance originality and faithfulness. Then they’d snapped at each other over their personal choices of A24 horror, and Ava’s awfully ignorant lack of exposure to some obscure ‘60s Romanian indie production that Lilith really liked.

And in the corner Beatrice was curled up into a chair, laptop sitting on the flat plane formed by the side of her folded knees. 

She was strangely quiet, considering the poorly-veiled spats being undertaken just a couple feet away. By Beatrice Standards, however, this was possibly normal, as Ava was learning. When, riled up, she’d gone around to get a glass of water from the lightly stained dispenser, she’d found her watching an unlisted YouTube video from a couple years ago featuring an in-house presentation Ava had given at Disney. It was about scary rides and storytelling; translating horror into immersive park experiences. A singular earbud was stuffed into her left ear. 

She didn’t make any attempt to minimize or pause the video as Ava went by. 

“What are you doing?” she blurted, interrupting Lilith going on and on about something or another.

Beatrice hummed. “Camila sent it to me.”

Ava waited, but that seemed to be the end of Beatrice’s explanation. Pixelated tiny Ava on the laptop screen sputtered and spread her arms out as the powerpoint slide behind her belly-rolled to its successor in a kitschy transition.

“Wait,” Beatrice said, before Ava could awkwardly walk the rest of the way to the dispenser. She bent down to scoop something up. “Here.” She held up a can of Pepsi to Ava, still cold enough that the scant condensation on it had not yet beaded up into little pearls. Ava saw that underneath her chair she had stowed a rectangular cooler box of canned drinks, with two or three more cans left in it. 

Ava took the can with a soft thanks. 

Beatrice quirked her head and murmured something that sounded like you’re welcome.

Beatrice said the damnedest things sometimes, amidst her quiet. Appropriate, sure, but unexpected unless you were looking out closely for the tell-tale flicker at the corner of her eyes, a horizontal dart-to and sometimes a shutter-quick sly twitch of her mouth that indicated she was preparing for an interjection.

Amused, if hardly full-blown entertained. Sharp, but never cruel. Indirect, and three layers deep. Oftentimes three planets away. Ava found it less than scrutable, and more than fascinating.

Bian lian, when they were talking about transitions between spaces and narrative divisions within Houses, which was a convoluted way to say that Lilith was getting evasive over the psychology and philosophy of putting fucking walls and doors in a haunted house. Just when the pressure was about to burst, Beatrice had piped up, and Lilith had turned around, her fists gradually unclenching. 

Later, Ava repeatedly scrubbed back and forth through the timeline of a video, mesmerized and marveling by the Chinese art. A minor flourish, or a glance of a cheek and – thwp – an entranced audience guided to look wherever the artist led.

The changing of faces. The fuzzy in-between of seasons. Here on the coast it is even more stark, this time of year. 

She calls out to Beatrice as she walks down the planks, and Beatrice turns around. Her hair is bunned up loosely, low and unresistant to ocean-blown stragglers

Ava walks closer when Beatrice turns around, calmly, and hovers a distance away so that Beatrice can keep a cushion of space between them, if she likes.

“It’s drizzling.”

“I know.” Beatrice doesn’t take Ava up on the offer to –leave? To chase Ava back in and away? To reassure Ava that she’d prefer to stay out here, alone? She pauses, though. Looks up, as if there was anything to see up in the sky, too dark for the clouds to distinguish themselves in plumes or pillows. Ava looks up too, just in case, but it’s a mess of splotched black-gray. 

Over their heads the apertures in the sky are widening into gulfs, and the dribble of water turns into sheets. 

Like the crepe streamers they used to hang up on the doorways in St Michael’s, fluttering maddeningly out of reach. The nuns had thought it was some kind of sick kindness to drape them from low enough beams that their papery ends would lap at and blow into Ava’s face as they wheeled her back and forth down the corridor like the monotone automation of a fucking metronome. Each blue and yellow and pink streamer touched her cheeks like a slap. Ava’d wanted to grip them with her teeth and pull them down. 

The rain, Ava reminds herself, is cold and uncaring and holds no such malice. 

Beatrice keeps staring into the ocean. “It’s beautiful out here.”

There’s words on the tip of Ava’s tongue but she holds them there and thinks; considers for once, before replying. Something about Beatrice, without saying anything aloud, asks this of her. If she recites a pun it must be good.

“It is.”

Beatrice hums. She turns her head back and inclines her head slightly as she regards Ava. Ava holds her breath. 

It occurs to her faintly that she’s never spoken one-on-one with Beatrice, ever. Of her three new coworkers, Beatrice feels the most faraway. She refolds Ava’s strewn, barbeque sauce-stained maps while Ava’s in the restroom, and plugs her wired earphones into a Spotify daylist full of musicians Ava’s never heard of. She has a phone widget on her homescreen tracking migratory birds,  and she goes out to the pier alone under ten-thirty p.m. rain. 

Ava studied Beatrice’s folders – all their folders – back at the office, once this whole thing was confirmed. Before even they’d found out. It felt almost prying, in a way, even if Suzanne herself had invited her to sit at the desk and passed her the papers. Sure, the Houses they detailed were long public; analyzed and reviewed to death, but this was different. This seemed private. Creativity and creation, to Ava at least, were wild creatures; bounding and bold on the outside, raw and sensitive and prone to clawing themselves apart on the inside.

She switched on the reading light and thumbed through the dossiers. Lilith’s had pen gashes through each iteration, angry and decisive, her documentation otherwise sparse and terse. Camila’s included scrapbooks of fabric and postcard-sized paintings, image references taped on each page.

The shells that Beatrice left behind were schematics and scripts in perfect order and format. Comments typed out formally along margins left deliberately blank, and mechanics illustrated in labeled figures, which were different from tables and clarified as such in the appendix. Without effusion or exaggeration, and with only harshly limited information to be gleaned from a couple of drily humorous notes thrown unexpectedly into the handwritten rightmost column of her change logs.

Amendment for review: section 7d entryway from section 7c now to be approached from visitors’ 9 o’clock, she’d written. Do remind reviewer S. Masters to be awake for it.

Said jester herself stands with her back still facing Ava, just out of reach, on the pier. Her hands dig into the pockets of her oversized windbreaker as her feet dig into the wood under them. Rogue strands and locks of dark hair follow the course of the wind. It’s beautiful out here, she says, just loud enough over the waves for Ava to catch.

Beatrice takes one and a half steps, precisely, so that she’s partially, intentionally, facing Ava. She says something, blown to the wind – about the facts of this place, maybe. Ava hears the name of the town crunched around the round Rs of Beatrice’s accent, and feels her feet willed, as if by that same wind, to step closer. 

Closer, closer, until she’s but an arm’s length from Beatrice, close enough she could reach out and adjust on her shoulder the crooked hood of her windbreaker, long blown off the top of her head. 

Then Beatrice turns back to face the pier, and she cranes her neck to look at Ava wordlessly, and Ava finally, finally, steps up beside her.

They got to town by car yesterday afternoon, a coastal place long salted by tourism when the tides were right, and only recently rejuvenated very slightly in biology circles when a couple of the further-flung waters got identified as hotspots for particularly unique marine ecosystems. 

Beatrice tells her there’s a small new outpost set up from newly-won grant money, although it’s far away from where they’re staying. She glances at Ava. There was a book at the information center, she quickly explains.

Ava knows what she’s talking about – said information center is a ten-minute walk inland, in the town center, and it’s more of a weatherbeaten cubicle with yellowed pamphlets and dusty books than a living, breathing tourist pitstop. It’s battered on all sides by the elements and seems to be standing only because it’s too difficult to dislodge from where it’s wedged between an ice cream shop and a postbox. Beatrice, all the same, peered through every peeling poster on the wall. 

They’d gone there yesterday after picking up some groceries while exploring the little town. Ava reached for an easy word to describe the town and found ‘fatigued’, and then she thought some more and concluded that it was drowned in a weird heavy-light emptiness. 

The time of the year did it no favors. Nobody goes island hopping in the rain, and it’s not dive season at the reefs. The fishing spots are browbeaten for everyone but the seasoned local fishermen, so the commercial tourist pontoons are netted up and fenced off. 

As a matter of fact, it had been so hard to get a ride to the caves, Ava had had to pay extra out of her own pocket. Lilith, of course, had nonetheless taken offense at her ‘poor planning’. Whatever. They have a ride. It leaves before dawn.

Now, side by side, Ava can’t tell if Beatrice is swaying lightly or rocking to the rhythm of the waves, or if it's just an illusion of movement on the pier.

“Sadly a lot of places are shut,” Ava states the obvious, “but at least the rooms were cheap.”

Beatrice tips her weight onto her heels, and this time Ava’s sure of it. It’s easy and balanced. 

“No,” she says, after some thought. “I didn’t know much about this town before, but it was a good choice to come here. Especially now during the offseason, when it’s quieter.” 

She skews her head oceanward as if trying to listen for something, and Ava follows suit, engrossed to the point of almost being bowled over by the jar of a wave hitting the wooden poles of the pier with a crunching thud. 

“It’s strange,” Beatrice says very seriously, “to be congested in so much stillness and silence.” 

There is nothing still or silent about the roar of the waves and the rain.

Beatrice’s work, Ava knows, has been increasingly skewing towards exploring a sort of apprehension and anxiety generated by the opposite of a traditionally suffocating enclosed-space experience. It’s strongest in her recent projects; Ava can spot it immediately – bleakly open space, elements of naturalism and realism manipulated with great technical care to subvert expectations and stir up something deeply uncomfortable and primal. 

Three years ago, Supermarket Massacre had had her fingerprints all over it. The year after that, the award-winning Aquarium, with Lilith and Camila and that one guy Vincent who’d apparently slacked off then ran off. Last year she took point on her own set for the first time. And in all three, like a bloody fingerprint, the opening scenes – the first sets located immediately past the entrances –  were all so characteristically, deceptively normal. Regular, in an unsettling, skin-crawling way. This was only the prelude, of course. Slowly the knife would be driven in and twisted unforgivingly.

It’s funny, because Beatrice insists, time and time again, that she doesn’t see herself as an artist or a creator. She wrote a guest article on a blog describing herself as merely an engineer organizing a space and Ava wryly thought the prose itself, elegant and clear, had given away the lie. What does a haunted house mean? How do we execute a nightmare into something feasible and tangible? Questions that had a myriad of answers and I do not believe we have yet exhausted them. There are many themes and concepts I’d like to reinvigorate beyond their traditional face value.

Subtlety, Ava sees, in last year’s factory-set After Hours. Movement, in increasingly sophisticated ways, beyond simple towering puppetry or rattling machinery or killer clowns scaring people into scurrying down claustrophobic pre-marked corridors. Soundscapes and landscapes that teeter on the brink of too-real, sped up or slowed down or taken one inch rightwards. Of course, unsettlingly unassuming opening scenes. Fear, Beatrice wrote, must be given time and space to breathe and self-propagate.

In a way, if this weekend getaway is a scouting trip less concerned with laying down concrete narrative groundwork and cultural research, and more concerned with opening a door into how each of Beatrice, Lilith and Camila see the world creatively, this bare coastal town is right up Beatrice’s alley. 

The least supernatural place in the world. And yet in Beatrice’s eyes it is a town that has dotted perforation lines across its torso tempting her endlessly to tear it open to unearth something deeper and darker that adheres to the inner surfaces of its pleura.

She speaks too-softly but almost excitedly against the thunder. Underneath the reserved, controlled demeanor there’s a glint of a thirst and challenge hidden underneath her tongue. 

“The park in the middle of town,” she says, “desire paths all through the long grass and not a footfall on the real ones. There’s a tape that stretches across the pavement with a warning sign dated two months ago.”  Her hands have crept up their sides to prod out at waist level, tangling and twirling in the air like dancing with the rain. Or making the rain dance and twist around them. 

They freeze in awareness, and the rain slaps down on them. 

“Go on”, says Ava. It comes out like a request, coiled up at the end and disappearing into the air.

She thinks Beatrice smiles a tiny bit at that, her eyes unreadable, but she doesn’t go on, and Ava is disappointed. 

“Well,” Beatrice’s tone is steady and tells Ava that the door is shut for now, “perhaps we’ll speak more about it after the caves.”

She says this matter-of-factly as if they’re all going to come back on that boat after sunset, sit down cross-legged in a circle with notepads and laptops, and excitedly paint a mural across the ceiling with lime-sharp ideas and skin-crawling narratives. This isn’t going to happen. Lilith nearly put a fist through the glass panels of a cabinet mere hours earlier. 

Beatrice is usually the most brutally pragmatic and unsentimental of the four, and here she is talking about the future like the present is a bubble that will undoubtedly pop and reveal a rose-tinted world. Ava doesn’t know what to think of it.

The coldness of the rain is starting to gnaw at and numb her fingertips. She breathes, strange and short. The words come out too easily: “You were watching my presentation from two years ago.”

Beatrice nods. “I was, yes. I finished it over afternoon break.”

“Can I ask why?” 

When Beatrice turns, Ava can’t see her face all that clearly. “Well, I wanted to know your principles and approach to designing fear experiences.” In the first flutter-crack of her composure Beatrice coughs twice. “It seemed, at least, something productive to do. And it’s important if we are to work closely together.”

The wind, walloped and fickle so that the rain beating down on Ava’s face seems to change its direction of attack every ten seconds or so, does not seem to pull them closer together, like in fanciful, romantic stories. It just tugs Ava about at her shoulders and knees like a ragdoll and makes her dizzy.

Beatrice pulls her jacket close. She gestures for Ava, shivering harder, to pull her sleeves down her elbows. Ava hadn’t even noticed, and does so now, but she’s still cold – damp-cold then air-frozen from salty windspray. She puts her hands as far as they can go in her pockets. Shifts her weight.

Beatrice’s face twists with – perplexion? Concern? 

In the meager light Ava sees her glance back behind them and cock her head towards the light from which they came, questioning. 

Ava shakes her head, and Beatrice doesn’t push. She doesn’t sigh out loud but her shoulders follow the trajectory of its motion as she peels off her outer layer, quickly and without fanfare. Underneath she is wearing a thick hoodie that only now begins to darken everywhere except for its already-exposed hood. Clearly, she’d planned to come out to walk, unlike Ava. 

Who’d stumbled out late after dinner, full of thoughts that had nowhere to stew and nowhere to run.

They’d had a big fight over the dinner table, boiled over from where it had been bubbling the last two days. There was a slamming of fists on the table, and Ava had torn her napkin from the tablecloth and went to sit alone at the bartop. 

What exactly do you want? What’s your structure? Churning in her head like an infinitely turning contraption, mixed fiercely over the anger of being asked to prove it and being goaded harder and harder towards standards that Camila and Beatrice never seemed to be asked to meet.

Full of feelings and other weird, warped rumblings that were difficult to thoroughly unpick as usual. And the messy sensation of all the air in her chest compressed from pushing frustratedly and hopelessly against a wall. Hoping the nebulous concept of Outside might put it into place or at least shove it all into boxes for her to sort out later. Ava, head hot and too-bright, lightheaded and needing to have it tamped down by the physical weight of darkness, had stumbled out into the night. She’d thought only of draining off the alcohol slightly and having it evaporate, along with everything else, from her scalp into the cool air.

It has, now, in any case. 

Burned out rapidly from the initial buzz, and then she’d seen Beatrice at the edge of the ocean. 

Beatrice holds her windbreaker out,  pinched between her fingers. Her hands curl neatly on both sides over the shoulders, and she brushes it once, twice, to chase away the little droplets accumulating on the water resistant surface. They smooth away into a flat of smaller droplets, and she offers it up to Ava.

“Here,” she says softly, “I have a few layers on already.” 

Ava hesitates, but Beatrice simply dusts off some water again and turns it with the change in the direction of the wind so that the rain doesn’t get inside. “Before the lining becomes soaked,” she urges in a whisper. 

The windbreaker is soft and lined with fleece, and it slips from Beatrice’s hands as Ava takes it and turns away to shrug it on. Beatrice watches her as she pulls her hands out of the sleeves; it is large already on Beatrice’s frame, and on Ava it is almost swallowing, like a ghost encumbered by its drapes. She fumbles with the zipper,  pulling it up to her neck eventually before straightening the collar and turning it up. 

“Thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” Beatrice says. She puts her own hands into her hoodie and looks very warm. Wet strands of hair drip down now and cling to her face, but she looks settled. 

“So, why did you come to the OCS?” she asks. It doesn’t sound cutting. 

Ava pouts and takes the bait. She deliberately shifts backwards onto a foot and crosses her arms so that her sleeves meet and zip with a rubbery drag.

“And what did you learn from my presentation?” Please don’t let this come off as rude please don’t let her take this the wrong way please don’t let her take offense–

“--Guilty,” Beatrice shrugs, a motion that looks almost foreign on her. “But I asked first.” She takes her hands out of her hoodie pocket and wrings them together absently, then lets them fall back down and tucks them back, relaxed, snugly into the pouch. 

She looks younger, like this, with her hair mussed by the weather and comfy in her hoodie. Like the windbreaker it is oversized and of indiscernible color. Ava can almost convince herself that it’s bruised lilac or dark blue. More likely it is some shade of plain gray.

Ava exhales, and feels more than hears the wood creak beneath her feet. The water is opening up and closing shut endlessly and Beatrice is looking at her, waiting, watching, and suddenly Ava needs to move; needs to curl her toes and stretch her fingers and get somewhere else. Move somewhere. 

And somehow, somewhere inside, needs also –hopes also, for Beatrice to move with her. 

Ava nods quickly. The wind changes yet again and her throat is dry. Instinctively she licks her lip and finds it salty. 

“How about the path behind the airstrip?”

Beatrice smiles tentatively. “Okay.”

They retreat from the water to concrete. The motel is built on part of an old private airstrip. There’s no longer sand here, just rocks and gravel petering out into the water. Behind the airstrip, though, there is a path that inclines upwards, lit by lamps until it reaches a boarded-up platform that drops harshly down into foam. 

Hands in windbreaker pockets, Ava leads them farther from shore. She doesn’t know if it’s the temperament of the sky or an illusion of distraction but the drizzle is slowing down now until it is in comparison barely noticeable as they head up the slope by the lamplight.

“So, why I joined this place,” Ava huffs. Beatrice hums in acknowledgement.

“A few things, I guess. You’ve watched the video,” Ava goes on, and Beatrice nods. “It was about storytelling, and scares, and honestly there’s some truth to how much you can do behind squeaky clean Disney barricades. I said it the first day – I love horror and what the OCS has done with it.”

She tells Beatrice about the first time she went to an OCS House, years ago; they must both have been in college at the time. University, she rolls her eyes, as the corners of Beatrice’s mouth dance upwards, whatever. She’d taken two days off class with a bunch of friends just to travel, because it was the only major independent place that had good wheelchair access back then.

Ava’s not using a cane now but she’d had it with her yesterday after getting out stiff and sore after the long car ride. Beatrice doesn’t ask. 

“That halloween, with all the houses – it blew me away. God. No kitschy carnival music, no colorful performers prancing around giving candy out to children at the doors. The food stands?” she gestures, “All outside the gates. No fucking carousels in the scare zones.”

Back then there were fewer Houses, and the compound was significantly smaller. Already it was a carefully calibrated maze, ready to scare in every weather contingency, with traps that would move and performers that would sit very still on steel chairs and, back then, the services of expensive external contractors to beef up the outdoor scenic design. 

“But d’you know what’s scary?” Ava turns to Beatrice and stops. Beatrice doesn’t startle, like Ava had feared in the split second after she’d spun around. “Traditionally, you don’t talk about a House, right? It’s rude to put spoilers in reviews or whatever. I loved that. I thought it made it fun, like a secret you’re all in on.”

“Then the OCS comes along and says: No, actually it’s important that people have access to our Houses, and the full extent of that means discreetly available trigger warnings and official spoilers, anytime.  We’ll make it a keystone of our design that every House has easy Outs in every section, and advertise it front and center.”

Ava knows Beatrice knows this, of course. 

“Which people thought was stupid, right? A terrible business move at best, if not a betrayal of the values of the art.”

Everyone knows what happened next. The move turned out wildly successful: a careless, confident vaunt that the OCS could afford to go to such daring lengths and still terrify people.  Daring would-be visitors, almost, to try and stay unaffected. We’re different, it said. Fucking try us then. They were free then, too, to do the worst possible things, in the safest possible environment. And nobody who didn’t need to have a look at the trigger warnings did so, while the number of first-time haunted house visitors shot up.

“Psychology,” Ava nods fiercely, “which is, as everyone knows, at the heart of manipulating fear.”

She leans forward, finally, looks Beatrice in the eye. It’s honest, and it’s terrifying. “I want that – to break the rules. All of them.”

Is that a controversial thing to say? To someone whose modus operandi famously is carefully twisted and controlled restraint, compared to the overflow and excess of most Houses. Who calculates, psychologically, the impact and ideal-slash-worst-case reactions to each moment in the House cascade, as if the mind is a kind of a machine and the House is a code passed through its system. Ava’s read what her critics say of her – that she’s cerebral to a fault. Technically masterful and horrifying; nauseating, in that cold, disturbing way, but that sometimes she fails to recognize that bombast is not a bad thing. That some excess does not the route suboptimize, or that instinct can give rise to flair and not undercooked loose ends.

Frigid, aloof. Beatrice tugs her from where she was headed towards a dead end off the slope, and nudges her up towards where the gradient beneath their feet tapers off. The back of her hand, where it brushes accidentally along Ava’s wrist, is warm.

They’re standing on an outcropping now. The rain has stopped fully and the path is more clearly illuminated by the higher density of lamps on the ground. They’re paid for by the motel, presumably, and somehow dug into the earth. There’s a bench here, too, and in sync Ava and Beatrice wordlessly sit down. The stone surface is wet, the kind that will soak into their dark jeans and leave the seats damp. 

They sit, anyway, the bushes crudely truncated so that the view looks out to dark water. 

Ava is one of them, now, no matter how much it doesn’t feel like it. Yet, a telltale voice quietly hopes. 

The business of haunted houses is a cyclical thing, isn’t it? Unlike working in the park year-round. Sure, there are two permanent fixtures that run through the year and get refreshed every year or so to keep the base revenue going and the OCS name in people’s mouths, but ultimately that’s the side show. It’s a seasonal business and so now the main seasonal campus is dark, strewn with work lights and scaffolding and blueprints.

But even if the OCS as the upcoming season’s visitors will know it is primordial now, with nothing even to show for it yet, she’s one of them. Even if she feels out of place, knee deep in viscous fluid. 

In Disney they’d hardly ever travel, because the rides she worked on were drawn from existing fictional worlds and their stories. Perhaps if she was lucky they would visit the place from which the fictional world was mined. Many other haunted house production companies, too, mostly drew inspiration from local or regional folklore or culture. Currently, the trend was, in fact, to camouflage the House itself into the very environment and location on which it stood.

Not many production companies would have her here, in a scraggly nowhere town of her own choosing, filmy with rain-gunk and algae, roofs discolored by harsh caustic cleaning sprays. Dipping her toes into somewhere unknown and parsing out something to bring back to the city and its bad 24-hour coffee vending machines and paint spills on uneven concrete and rough graffitied walls. There is, ironically, something fresh, new and strange about it all. 

And it’s why Ava’s here, really. To eat food from different places. Run her toes through grass in every country. Put her tongue out to the breeze and bring it back in the form of twisting walls that cave down around the people within. To behold nothing the same way twice, and to insist on nothing as sacred. Break all the rules. 

The waves are distant but the sound carries up and towards them.

“That’s what I gathered,” Beatrice says, wistfully, or thoughtfully, “from the presentation.” She sits a little way away on the bench, her hands crossed at her wrists and fingers peeking out from the thick sleeves. Under Ava’s hands, pressed down on either side, the seat is rough. And Beatrice, back straight and so calm, is soft. Like her eyes.

Beatrice looks down and runs her fingers over the grain of the bench too, coarse and stuck together, although smoothened with time. She seems to sigh, soak the air around her into her pores, and relax. Rise, like foam in a glass. 

“In the beginning of the video,” she starts, “You compare a good ride to a good haunted house.” She puts up three fingers and duly counts them off. “Both tell an immersive story. Both twist away from what the audience knows to be reality. Both break convention to surprise.” 

Her voice, Ava finds, is endlessly different from the only times she’s heard it at length, over a stuttering video call. Far away from the stricturing of bad connection and Zoom audio, it sounds different – just as modulated and thoughtful, but full of something, contained, yet to overflow. Ava thinks of a pot with a lid with hot, rich soup in it, sizzling lightly with a fragrance that perfuses the whole kitchen.

She talks through the presentation – Beatrice, that is, in her own words, and Ava’s maybe-kind of-perhaps bewitched. It’s the way she fits Ava’s points gently into a structure and perspective that even Ava hadn’t thought of; the way she spins Ava’s hamfisted tangent on dueling flight-or-hug-tight instincts into a dizzying fifteen-second suckerpunch insight into isolation versus community in group horror experiences. Or the way she recites her favorite of Ava’s bad jokes, word-for-word, from memory, and looks genuinely pleased by it too.

Ava doesn’t know for sure. She’s still reeling when Beatrice simply pauses and settles. She bobs her head, a tiny, barely-there smile on her face. “So yes,” she says, “that’s what I’ve learned about your design outlook.” 

Her expression changes in hints and tiptoes to something more considering. “But about you, and how we – I,  will work with you – that’s not so easily gleaned from one video.”

Ava laughs at that, almost speechless. Still breathless and oddly naked, in a way she’s not used to feeling. “No, no it isn’t.” 

She looks up and away, registering suddenly and overwhelmingly the indistinct shapes of trees. Grass. Path markers. 

It’s true. They don’t know her, and she doesn’t know the three of them. Not like they know each other, twisting like moss and creepers around each others’ spines. There is something there that’s old and impenetrable and bound in the covers of a book in a different language she doesn’t speak. And she speaks a whole bunch of languages, yes, but none like this one.

“We need to learn how to work together,” she admits. This is an understatement, Ava knows, and grossly so. She thinks about Lilith, but also about Camila and her expansive imagination, its rhythm slightly out of sync from the drumbeat of Ava’s mind, and her easy physical affection that masks an unspoken space between them. She thinks about Beatrice and her uncanny wordlessness and then her uncanny wordfulness that Ava hasn’t had the chance to learn how to anticipate. To everyone that’s not her closest circle Ava thinks she must seem like a pendulum that’s always being chased, and never getting caught, her thoughts running and pivoting a hundred miles ahead. 

And together they are musical lines in a contrapuntal piece, and hell, Ava knows only four chords on a guitar.

“We will,” Beatrice decides, suddenly. Ava’s mind has slipped from the conversation, but the bite of it snaps her to alert.

“What will we– what?” 

In her alarm their eyes meet. She watches Beatrice’s fingers stretch out towards her on the bench instinctively, and then quickly retract into a half-fist, drumming once, twice on the seat before slotting into her pocket to slide her phone out to sit loosely in her palm. 

She wrinkles her nose apologetically. A hairball of worry in Ava’s chest untangles itself.

“I.. just know that you’ve googled us like we’ve googled you.”

As Beatrice talks she turns over her phone slowly, hypnotically. Long fingers press and flip it in a well-worn sequence: the screen forwards and over twice, then clockwise along its side, before repeating in the opposite direction.  

“Earlier on you said that Lilith locks herself in a room to brainstorm.” 

Huh? Oh yeah, she did. When they were arguing over timeline flexibility for their project and the frequency of check-ins. Lilith said she was flighty and ill-disciplined. Ava told her she was out of her mind and a cold-blooded reptile who’d lost touch with all shreds of human needs and interactions. She’d made a snarky joke about Lilith’s grotesquely fancy ensuite bathroom and finding someone else to try and shit on.

“Well, that piece of trivia is only found in an interview from two years back that’s out of print. You can only find its scans on some niche member-only forums.” 

Ava shrugs – this is what you do with new co-workers, is it not? You do your part. And Ava is doing the best she can.

“Yeah, sure,” she concedes, “but that’s not – it’s not–” plainly, it’s not the same. What can Ava do except shrug again?

Beatrice makes a small noise. 

“I know,” she reiterates, and the deep furrows of her forehead release and smoothen, like she seems to have come to a realization. 

She offers cautiously, hesitantly, “the article does say that. But it’s not true.” She inhales sharply.

“Lilith appreciates her independence, yes, but she knows better than to entirely isolate herself anymore.” Clearly, there’s a story in that. “But the deadline was at midnight, and the editor wanted to add something else in the copy they sent. Lilith was grouchy, we were drunk, and Camila made it up in the return email without telling her.”

Beatrice pauses and tilts her head. Up the curve of her chin to her cheeks, dimples reveal themselves shyly and momentarily.

“Lilith was furious. She only found out when the article was released. The only reason she grudgingly refrained from further action was because, I believe, the falsified information fit into the image of how she wanted to present herself to the world.” 

She gazes straight at Ava then, curious and the most open that Ava’s ever seen her. “Nobody’s ever brought it up again,” she remarks, searching Ava. “Well. Not until you.”

Beatrice’s hands still; she wipes her phone against her shirt, and looks carefully at Ava. Ava’s intelligent; far more than people give her credit for. She knows what Beatrice is doing – trying to do, in her own way. 

After a long pause, during which the drone of the waves becomes deafening and then recedes, “I won’t pretend that Lilith is merely aloof, or that the things she has said are not unkind or unfair. She’s treated you poorly.”

Ava resists a scoff, and scrambles instead to clear her throat noisily. She doesn’t bring up again the simple fact that, foremost amongst a host of reasons, Lilith is why they’re here. The last straw. The final trigger.

Beatrice regards her like she isn’t fooled.

“She is less coarse to those she’s close to, but has been known on occasion to be rather prickly, even then.” Beatrice, as if remembering something then, chuckles lowly. Gorgeously. “She’s very particular about safety standards and protocols, for example.”

“Once, she yelled at me in front of the whole crew for taking a nap on the floor of  an unfinished room in a maze in the dark during lunch. She was angry, and worried, but still. I needed to get away from everyone for a break, and as you might expect, it backfired.”

“I’ll try not to do that,” Ava offers. “I’ll break into her trailer and sleep on her desk instead.”

“Oh dear,” There’s palpable mirth in it. Ava’s poker face shatters into a beam.

Beatrice probably can’t see it. It’s dark. 

“Ava?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m sorry. I don’t expect you to be alright with any of it.”

Ava breathes. 

“Okay,” she replies, finally. “Thank you. I appreciate that.”

She lifts the palms from where they’ve been pressed tightly to old, uneven rock. The soft flesh of the heel is kissed with the pattern of the grain.

So Ava turns, on the bench, and her feet squelch most uncomfortably in the wet shoes as she adjusts herself to face Beatrice – not directly,  but at the slight angle from which the light of the moon and the light at their feet call out to each other and meet on the tip of her nose.

Beatrice tucks her phone carefully in her lap and turns to Ava too.

And slowly, in dribs and drabs that spill out like the corners of dough sheets cut out from metal molds, Ava introduces herself to Beatrice. 

No, not the dramatic, tragic moments – the accident, the orphanage, all that. The night is transient and thinning fast into its wee hours, and it’s the little things first, you know? 

The one-coffee-one-energy-drink-one-juice combo routine that gets Ava through long days and overtime hours. The overnight movie marathon treat she grants herself at the culmination of each project. The lucky Super Mario Bros. spoon and bowl set that she’s got to eat out from the day before a big pitch. 

Her hiring, Ava thinks, is still a dry and excoriated topic, and so she tries to skim over it. She tries to avoid going into detail on how she got poached, and then how she’s painstakingly combed through all their archival documents and notes, so as to understand. She doesn’t mention the fan content and critic reviews she’s pored over, the world beyond OCS doors she’s tried to immerse herself in to grasp the scale of the project and the context of her addition.

Beatrice narrows in on it, anyway. It looms, Ava supposes, far too large to avoid.

It’s sometime after one A.M. when she puts her head down slightly, and Ava feels the shift. 

“You know, I’ve seen some of the forums,” Beatrice strokes down the damp strands of hair that have come loose over her ears.  “They’re – not entirely true. I don’t dislike working with others.”

Ava had seen the forums too, and the flint-tipped speculation that slithered about the different pages. Usernames pockmarked with numbers, an argot of acronyms and the slang of self-proclaimed megafans. Posts that didn’t have Beatrice’s name in them but that were transparently about her, describing with vulgar flippance a cool, isolated oddness that locked crew members out from the indecipherable machinations of her mind. 

Beatrice’s hands tighten over her phone. “It just takes me some time –” she forces out, and then bites her lip.

Ava thinks about Camila in the corridor this afternoon, after Beatrice had wordlessly entered her own room and shut the door – now, she knows, to watch the video. Ava had stopped for a second too long, looking puzzled after her, when Camila had brushed breezily past.

“Oh, don’t worry,” she’d laughed, “she’s like this. Once she opens up, she’s a completely different little beast.”

Ava hadn’t doubted that – there was evidently a Beatrice that bantered with Lilith and Camila in branching links of long chains that she couldn’t understand; a Beatrice that must have climbed up the towering tree at the back early in the morning to pluck yellow flowers from its crown. 

This Beatrice had been ready to go ahead to the counter before Camila and Lilith had even sat down at yesterday’s lunch to place their orders on their behalf.

She hadn’t even needed to check in with them, but came over to Ava’s seat and looked over her shoulder. “What would you like?” she’d asked, and Ava rushed, panickedly, to look over the menu. She traced each line with her index finger, and looked up to find Beatrice, eyes wide and patient.

“This one, please, the burger,” she’d jabbed the flimsy laminated paper, “and a Pepsi.” Beatrice had strode off before a waiter could come over. She’d refused to let any of them pay her back, and when Ava had tried to send her money on her phone she raised her eyebrows very questioningly and Ava melted back into the plastic-backed seat.

In the end, Ava can only personally vouch for the epipelagic – the shallowest fraction of ocean pierced by sunlight. The parts of the person allowed tentatively to surface in every halting, hesitant attempt forward as a quartet. As of now, too, in the drizzly shadows of tonight. 

Perhaps the light can reach only fingertip-deep, but Ava wagers there has to be water all the way down. The rest is gut feeling and instinct; slowly glowing embers like a fist in her chest.

“Beatrice,” Ava says, once it’s clear she’s still working her way out of a labyrinth of word finding, “Listen. I believe you.”

Tense shoulders quieten and flatten into a horizontal plane. Ava feels Beatrice’s eyes scan her face, go past her ears and her messy hair and the tip of her nose and then settle, finally, with a helpless little smile. 

Ava calls out on the boardwalk. She listens to Beatrice whisper on this stone, and Beatrice listens back. There’s sunlight, hours away, on the horizon but at this moment there’s only secret shades of moonbeam, and those shades are all for them. It’s not enough, still. It’s not enough. Ava wants more.

She wants, she finds with some desperation, to be inside of the invisible circle. There is nothing worse than dragging her feet outside, half a step offbeat, unable to reach in and with nobody reaching out. A ghost, intangible and aware of it, when all she wants is to feel the hot flames of real life – to have Lilith’s sharp tongue lash out and scald her in the way it does Camila or Beatrice – with blunt honesty and easy comfort instead of probing malice. To have Camila’s name light up on strings of text notifications as it buzzes constantly on Beatrice and Lilith’s phones almost the moment they are apart. Beloved, joyful, alight. To have Beatrice… to have Beatrice —

The phone in Beatrice’s hands lights up, too bright, and it makes her squint. A flash of numbers – time – sears itself into Ava’s eyes before Beatrice frowns and puts it away into her hoodie. It’s late, Ava thinks, considering the boat is coming by early to bring them out for sunrise. But Beatrice doesn’t move to go back, and neither does Ava. 

Of all the things Beatrice finds terrifying – enough, she’s always been quoted, to transplant them into the nightmare fuel of haunted houses – the dark now doesn’t seem to be one of them. Ava agrees, she thinks: there is no place safer now than where they are, on a rock one measly wooden fence away from a dizzying drop into rock and rushing depths. It feels, for once, and for maybe the first time –

(since the start, after that final infuriating video call when she screamed into her duvet and yelled into her shower and limped to the computer where she bit her lips raw and booked the tickets here and told a trio of uneasy still-strangers that she might struggle to pull them out their homes with her own hands and nails but they would be getting out and traveling to a coastal nowhere-town and fucking sitting down to get this partnership going –)

–it feels like she’s making headway. 

Not on the Houses, not on the inspiration for them or the mechanisms and processes with which to put them together, no, although all those, too, in their own ways.

Here, far off from home, next to choppy waters, shorn into grass and trees readying themselves to be busted up by summer storms, amongst flowers somehow poking up through the salt and sand, a breath away from the touch of waves and the tiny crawling organisms that besiege it, (beside an odd girl in the giddy, open air,) – here.

Solid ground.

And maybe Beatrice is right, you know? Maybe life is more similar to the business of soul-sucking fear-buildings than people believe. 

Ava’s always had, she thinks, an incredibly lucid understanding on what makes good haunted houses tick. It’s trust, essentially, and safety. How do you enter a situation that frightens more viscerally and wholly than a movie or even a 3D dark ride – and then keep walking? 

Headway. The only thing that gets you out of a haunted house is burrowing deeper within.

Arms outstretched, palms open, into its guts and chest. There’s extensive academia on thrill rides: on how much of the atmospheric and storytelling work goes into the sections of the experience that precede the ride, because once the carriage croaks to life, it’s easy to close one’s eyes and lose all clarity.

Haunted houses aren’t like this.

Since she got out of St Michael’s, Ava’s gotten by on a brand of fearlessness, a reputation built on a willingness to try almost anything. But fearless perhaps isn’t the word. She’s scared, still, with every step forward. Worried out of her mind of having to work from scratch all over again. Terrified of going back to before. But this, unfortunately, or blessedly so, is life: the only way out, Ava’s found, is further in.

She doesn’t want to be here. She wants to be there, already there.

Ava wants so badly to be elbow deep in the mud and wires of bringing stories to life far more fully and physically than in almost any other medium. She wants it so bad and so bare that she doesn’t even really know how to spell it out on a cloudy spring-summer night in a way that won’t chase Beatrice away with the breathless depth of her desperation to make people feel in a way they will never forget. Or frighten her with the too-much, too-fast of it all. 

She wants to flood people’s imaginations and send adrenaline through their arteries; have them wrap themselves around each other until the impression of lovers’ arms are engraved around the frame of each other’s bodies, shared warmth and solidity the only things keeping them upright through the maze. 

And Ava doesn’t need someone to hold her through a haunted house – god, she’s the one with her fingers tugging the strings that shift and twist its spine in circles around its terrified visitors – but it would be nice for once to stand in the control tower, eyes alight, heart racing, with hands as bloodstained as her own. 

To run through second-by-second early test run footage and data with another pair of eyes over early morning coffee and buns, discussing furiously the corners where the tourniquet can be tightened or loosened. To have conversations over the mixing console worth muting the scream track for. Even if – no, especially if they have nothing to do with work; conversations past awful awkward shop talk and instead all-in on the minutiae of home furnishings and dream pets and eschatology.

There was an impermanence to the constant shuffling of working groups, the fast paced turnarounds at Disney, but truthfully, she hadn’t been unhappy there. But then the email came through to her inbox on the rare once-fortnightly day that she would sit in her office, cartoonish vampire mug in hand, daydreaming with her laptop open, and that was it.

She flew down to headquarters to meet Suzanne in December. It was quiet in the office, with everyone off on final scouting trips and finalizing plans and sourcing materials and manpower. Suzanne had therefore been able to give her a private tour, and Ava did everything to pretend her mind hadn’t been made up long before.

First there was her personal office, which was the downright coolest room Ava’d been in for a while, forest green and quietly centered around the unassuming framed family picture on the desk. Cabinets of fossils with extra labels in a child’s scrawled handwriting: Terry the trilobite :D and spoonface and illustrated stickmen with swords. Delicate, beautiful, floral watercolor diagrams mounted on the wall and a soft, thick rug with complicated, beautiful depictions of scenes from the Tempest. 

Suzanne showed her the generous pantry, which would have sealed the deal if it hadn’t already been set in stone, and then they passed the meeting rooms into the archive gallery. 

This was, essentially, a museum of past mazes. A large, dark place of glass and thin, sharp panes of burnished golden light. Suzanne brought her, wide-eyed, through its displays of early Houses. 

“You’ve been visiting our Houses, on and off, over the last few years, correct?”

Ava nodded. Since that college trip, really, and whenever she could spare the time and the money.

“Good,” Suzanne said. “If you accept this offer, you will be joining a team of some of our best young designers, so you may be familiar with some of their work.”

Indeed, within the glass cases sat Camila’s famed dioramas, fixed in place now but ready to stir to life once hooked up to a battery. Detailed, hand-painted and assembled, its parts sliding apart into modular sections that could be split open and shifted around.

Lilith’s meticulous blueprints too, and ruthless postmortems and analyses she’d done of her own work, although those were sealed away. “I had to demand that she hand them over and not keep them pinned up at her desk hanging over her head,” Suzanne remarked beside Ava, looking up into the glass at the nondescript manila folder. 

“If not you, it would have been her.”

Unsurprising. Disney had used Lilith Villaumbrosia-masterminded sections of mazes in case studies for scene-setting and scare actor interactions. And Ava had entered her House two years ago. She knew.

“I will be honest with you, Miss Silva.”

“Ava.”

“Ava. Lilith is not what you may be expecting, and it may be difficult to get across to her at first. She is as acerbic as she is brilliant.”

That was the twist that was coming, of course: that they were all good friends. That the three designers that Suzanne had long had in mind to join Ava already knew each others’ minds and neural pathways so keenly that they could probably unzip the gyri of each others’ brains like a ribbon and then put them back together. 

“They don’t know it yet,” Suzanne warned, “and they will not like it at first, but I see it.” She opened up one of the cases with a key to remove a polaroid of three grinning faces, arms looped together. She held it to the light. “You’re the missing piece to the puzzle.” 

But what about everything she’s still missing?

The gravelly ground is solid beneath their feet, and Ava doesn’t feel the vibrations of the waves. The world appears still and frozen even as everything is changing and morphing and blooming, and gaping thirstily for something more she can’t put a finger to. 

The water could flood and Ava’s eyes might smart with exhaustion in the morning, or she might try to get two or three hours of sleep and wake up after one anyway, screaming as usual, and all the same Ava thinks she would still be chasing. Running. 

There is nothing in her mind resembling gory sets and the creak of animatronics, then, as she looks to her right at a girl she can scarcely even see in the dark, yet that she finds she cannot look away from. Ava can see why the magazines call her a mystery: Beatrice says she’s always on heightened alert, and yet – and yet –

She’s gazing back at Ava in a blanket of complete calm.

The wind from the ocean is blowing, the darkness feels safe. Ava and Beatrice, on a stone bench, talking, close. Easy steps, Ava thinks. Small steps, small questions. Maybe this is how it starts.

She takes a chance. Asks.

Beatrice closes her eyes, exhales, and begins to answer.

(Here are some requirements for a successful haunted house, or a horror film, or a heart-pounding roller coaster: it must evoke emotion that travels in icy ringlets down your spine, and it must stay indelibly in your mind.)

[songforeddiemunson]

Three of a Kind

"Hear me out. Inexperienced! Eddie (not a virgin but his experiences are sort of few and vanilla) and an impromptu perhaps tipsy threesome w reader (they're not together but he does think she's hot, maybe they'll end up together who knows) and another chick? Making his wildest dreams come true. Maybe at a party? A gathering of some sort. Just spit balling at this point. It sounds hot. And I want it (Joseph Quinn voice.)" --@etherealglimmer

Inspired by the above headcanon. I'm sorry this took me SO long to finish. I did take a few liberties with the idea (Eddie has had non-vanilla sex but nothing like THIS, and no real relationships). I hope you enjoy!!

Eddie Munson x Fem!Reader x Fem!Roomate

Summary: Eddie makes a weed delivery to his crush at her college party. He gets waaaaay more than payment in response.

Warnings: 18+ for foul language, threesome sex, oral sex (m and f receiving), fingering, strap-on sex, p in v sex, spitroast, a little rough, but kinda sweet. Fluffy filth.

Word Count: 4K

MASTERLIST

THREE OF A KIND

I can't wait to rev you up

Faster than you can say Ferrari

Tearin' up the gravel, watch you unravel

Now it's a party, hey!

October 1986

Eddie normally wouldn’t make a weed run to a college party over twenty miles from home. Spending nearly an hour on the road on a Friday night was not exactly his idea of a good time, and the gas his van guzzled cut into his profits. 

But he would make an exception for you.

You weren’t exactly friends, but you had gotten along. You were cool; not one of the popular brats but not a social pariah either. You drifted somewhere in between, just marching to the beat of your own drum. Eddie respected that. You ran into each other outside school on occasion, and would share a smoke or a joint and have a little chat about the latest music releases or the whatever horror flick you had just seen. 

While nothing had ever gone beyond a mild flirtation, Eddie allowed himself to wonder if there were possibilities there. Would you ever want to spend some time with him?  Should he ask you out on an actual date? How did people even do this? He had never really had a proper girlfriend before, and the idea would ultimately leave him feeling flustered and he would push the thoughts away. 

While he was far from a virgin, his experiences were limited to occasional post-gig hookups with the chicks who hung around the hideout looking for a guitarist to nail. It was fun, and the mutual understanding of having no strings attached kept things from getting complicated, but, during those moments when he was feeling particularly lonely, he always found himself looking for that deeper connection that nobody took the time to afford him. And sometimes his thoughts would wander to you.

When you told him that you were going to go off to the community college a couple of towns over, he was surprised.

“I was thinking of going into mortuary sciences,” you said, as you checked your eyeliner with your compact.

“Seriously?” Eddie huffed a laugh.

“Nah,” you said, snapping the compact shut. “Just fucking with you. But I do kinda want to be a writer, maybe tour around and write for Rolling Stone or some shit. So I’m gonna take some English comp courses.”

Eddie grinned. “That sounds awesome, good for you.”

“What are you going to do with your life?” you asked him, arching one eyebrow.

Eddie shrugged.  “Jeff and I talked about getting a shithole apartment in Indy or maybe Detroit. I’ve been learning mechanics in my free time. Fix some cars, play some tunes. Just get the hell out of Hawkins.”

“Right on,” you said, smiling amicably as Eddie struggled to mask the disappointment he felt at the prospect of your moving away.

So when you called him six months later looking for a weed hookup, Eddie was practically out the door before you could hang up the phone.

He chuckled to himself as he pulled up to the address he had hastily scribbled on a scrap of paper. Where the hell did you bring me?

It was certainly no sorority house, not that he would have pegged you as the type to join a sorority anyway. It was on the outskirts of town bordered by dense woods, and looked more like an old church than a proper house. This struck Eddie as hilariously fitting (if bordering on sacrilege) and he laughed out loud as he stepped out of the van and sauntered up the walkway.

He observed a few other cars parked about as he approached the house, and he could hear the music thumping as he raised his hand to knock on the door. He knocked three times before spotting the doorbell and giving it a quick buzz.

After a pause of about fifteen seconds, the door swung open, allowing the heady scents of weed and incense to spill out the door, along with the dark and rhythmic tones of Souxie and the Banshees’ Cities in Dust.  It was an assault on Eddie’s senses, and the woman who answered the door was no exception.

She was tall, maybe more than 5’7”, with a too-orange to be natural pixie cut and plump, heavily glossed lips. She was a punk goddess in doc martens, fishnets and a plaid miniskirt, simultaneously a cliché and a delight, and for a moment Eddie forgot to speak, his tongue plastered uselessly to the roof of his mouth.

“Yeah?” she said, making no effort to hide her assessment of him as her eyes raked up and down the length of Eddie’s body before stopping at his face, her green eyes penetrating into his. One luscious lip curled up into the ghost of a smirk.

After his brain finally caught up to his mouth he blurted out your first name– a bit too loudly– and quickly followed up with, “uh sorry yeah, she’s expecting me.”

The goddess turned and shouted your name into the dwelling, which was dark and moody; light bulbs had been swapped out for colored ones, smoke hung heavy in the air, lending a hazy and otherworldly vibe to the interior.

You appeared quickly, and Eddie’s heart nearly fell out of his chest. Thoughts of the goddess who answered the door were obliterated when you stepped into view. College looked great on you. Not that you needed the help.

“How’s it going, Munson? Did you find the place alright?” you asked him. You noticed that he was out of breath.  “Did you run here, or something?” you added with a laugh.

“Uh, no, I’m fine,” Eddie said, his expression breaking out into a grin. “It’s good to see you. It’s been a while.”

“You too, Eddie,” you said, and stepped away from the door to allow him room to enter. “Come on in. Welcome to my humble abode.”

“You actually live here?” Eddie asked as he followed you inside, weaving around people and through the living room, where he glimpsed more people– mostly women– lounging about and chatting. There were men present as well, but they seemed to be the minority.

Your laugh sounded like bells under the loud music. “Well not alone, but yeah, I live here with four other girls. We’re not a sorority or anything, not anything official, anyway. But split five-ways this place is actually affordable, and it creeps people out, so we’re left alone.”

“Was this a church?” Eddie asked as he looked around the place.

You nodded. “Once upon a time. I guess it was an old chapel but was deconsecrated after the pastor murdered someone. Drink?”

Eddie paused, laughing, holding his hands up. “Whoa whoa wait. You can’t just casually drop that you live in an old murder chapel and just expect me to move on from that.”

You shrugged. “That’s honestly all I know!” You giggled at his expression of incredulity. “Do you want a drink or not?”

Eddie sighed and dropped his hands in resignation. “Sure, I guess I’ll have a murder beer from the murder chapel.”

You laughed heartily as you opened the fridge and pulled out a can of PBR, popping the tab as you handed it over. Eddie took it from you, and downed a considerable amount before setting it aside on the counter and reaching into his leather jacket’s inner pocket.  He pulled out a baggie of weed and handed it to you.

“Your green, milady.”

“Thanks, Eddie,” you said, pulling three neatly folded ten-dollar bills from your bra and handing them over. Eddie tried not to stare.

“Pleasure doing business,” he said as he stuffed the bills into the pocket of his jeans without ceremony. He picked the beer up again, unsure of what to do next and feeling slightly awkward. “Sorry your regular hookup went out of town,” he said before taking another pull of beer.

“Oh that?” you replied. “Nah, they’re around. I just needed an excuse to get you over here.”

Eddie sputtered his sip, needing to wipe his mouth on the sleeve of his jacket.  “I’m sorry, what?”

“I wanted to see you,” you shrugged. “I was listening to the new Iron Maiden album the other day and it got me thinking, what would Eddie think of this?”

Eddie stood up straight, his eyes brightening. “Too fucking synth-heavy! What were they thinking?!” he exclaimed, making you laugh.

“Exactly. Except for Wasted Years. That song was solid.”

“Yes!” Eddie cried. “It was the only song on the album that didn’t make me want to throw myself out of a moving car,” he said, and the two of you simply grinned at each other for a moment before he continued.  “But yeah, Bruce’s vocals were solid though.”

“Of course,” you nodded, smiling. “Bruce is always solid.”

“You know,” Eddie said, leaning forward dramatically while holding onto the counter with one hand, “you could have just called me, you didn’t need to buy weed you didn’t need.”

“I suppose I could have,” you said, stepping toward him. “But where is the fun in that?”

Eddie didn’t have time to fully react; only a quick widening of the eyes showed he registered your actions before you grabbed a fistful of the front of his jacket and pulled him in for a kiss. His lips were soft and pillowy, and you pulled away for a moment to look up into the big brown eyes that frequently haunted your dreams. “I should have done this ages ago,” you murmured, causing Eddie’s heart to triple its pace.

“I wish you had,” he said, before diving back in for another kiss. He brought his hands up to cup your face, tilting your head to deepen the kiss. You allowed him to do it, you would probably let him do anything. You wanted this, you had fantasized about this, and now his tongue was sliding along yours, teasing and exploring. You tasted the sweetness of the pilsner and the ghost of the cigarette he smoked on the drive, and a tiny moan escaped you as you tangled your fingers into the locks of hair you had so longed to touch.  You pressed your body taught against his and you could feel the stiffness of his arousal. Fighting the urge to tear at the fly of his jeans, you pulled away. 

“Let's go upstairs,” you whispered. Eddie could only nod.

You led him by the hand out of the kitchen and toward the stairs, around the languidly dancing bodies, feeling giddy, the song now Shake the Disease by Depeche Mode, the music thrumming and thrilling, making you feel like you were floating outside of yourself.

The moment you had him upstairs and into your room you were on him again, kissing and nibbling at those perfect lips and pushing his jacket off his shoulders. You quickly started to kneel but Eddie stopped you with a finger under your chin, gently urging you back up. 

“Not that I’m complaining,” Eddie chuckled softly at your puzzled expression. “But where is this coming from all of a sudden?”

“I told you,” you said, “I missed you.”

“But why didn’t you do this before? You had plenty of opportunities and I would have been happy to oblige.”

“I don’t know,” you began, unsure of how to phrase what you felt. “Before, I didn’t know what I wanted. But I have a better sense of who I am now. And like I said…” your hand trailed down Eddie’s jeans as you spoke, and you slowly pulled the zipper of his fly down, “I’ve been thinking of you.”

Without another word, you pushed him backward onto the bed, and his surprised laugh was cut short when you pulled his length from his jeans and slipped your lips around the tip. “Oh fuck,” he gasped. “You aren’t messing around are you, oh my go–”  the rest of the sounds Eddie made no longer contained words.

You took him in as far as you could and then pulled back up, circling your tongue around the tip. You pumped him slowly as you worshiped the head of his dick for a while; sucking, licking, kissing. Eddie leaned back and braced himself on his hands, his little gasps and moans fueling you onward and enhancing your own arousal. You took his full length in again, and alternated in this manner for a while, going between head worship and deep throating, pulling him closer to the edge. 

Eddie was trying not to come while pondering the possibility that he had died en route to your house and was now in heaven, when the bedroom door abruptly opened. Eddie sat up, feeling alarmed and strangely bashful, but you simply pulled away with an annoyed, “what?” 

You still had his cock in your hand.

“Oh there you are,” Chloe said, sounding annoyed. She seemed completely unbothered by what she had interrupted, but one eyebrow ticked upward when she saw the impressive appendage encircled by your fingers.

Eddie, unsure of what to do and feeling exposed, grabbed a random piece of cloth– which turned out to be a tank top– and draped it over his exposed erection.

“Do you mind? We’re kind of in the middle of something here…” Eddie blurted, at a vocal register a bit higher than normal.

“No,” Chloe responded, before turning her attention to you. “Where is the blue curacao?”

“How should I know?” you laughed. “Did you check on top of the fridge?”  

“Yes, it’s not there.”

You shrugged. “It’s probably gone then.”

“Disappointing,” Chloe replied. “I wanted a blue Hawaiian.”

“I don’t know what to tell you,” you said.

Eddie watched this exchange with wide, incredulous eyes, ping-ponging back and forth between you as if he was watching a tennis match.

“So is this one yours then?” Chloe asked, nodding her head in Eddie’s direction.

“I really like him,” you said simply with a smile. Despite his absurd situation, Eddie felt something warm bloom in his heart.

“So…” Chloe began. “Not up for sharing this one then?”

Eddie nearly choked on nothing.

You looked at him, considering. Your initial reaction was to say no, because you wanted Eddie all to yourself. But Chloe was sexy, and a lot of fun. You shrugged. “Are you up for that?” you asked him matter-of-factly.

“Am I– am I up for what exactly?” Eddie stammered.

“A threesome. With me and Chloe.”

“I uh– oh my god. Uh, I guess? If that’s okay with you two, but sure? Yeah.” Eddie tried and failed to sound nonchalant about it, as if a threesome with two beautiful women was something that just happened.

“Excellent,” Chloe said, stepping forward and kicking the door closed as she pulled her top off over her head in one fluid motion. She knelt beside you, and tossed aside the flimsy fabric that covered Eddie's slightly softened member. “Aw, does someone have some nerves? Don’t worry, we’ll fix that,” she said, and pulled you in for a messy kiss, her sticky lip gloss painting your lips as she lapped into your mouth with her tongue. You moaned softly. Chloe was the perfect sort of filthy, and this was going to be a lot of fun.

You made out sloppily for a moment as Chloe pumped Eddie back up to his full hardness, then she pivoted over to slip her lips around his cock. Eddie tossed his head back and moaned. Chloe’s technique was different from yours; she was more rough and forceful, never afraid to take what pleasure she could while leaving men and women completely spent in her wake. You admired her boldness, and watching her slurp down the object of your affection was absolutely thrilling. Chloe sucked Eddie down so thoroughly, that she would bury her nose in the thatch of his pubic hair before pulling up, gasping, with ribbons of saliva trailing away from her lips. It was filthy.

You climbed up onto the bed as this went on and kissed Eddie, softly at first, then hungrily, and you alternated between nipping his bottom lip with your teeth and licking into his mouth with your tongue. He moaned into your mouth as Chloe slipped one of his balls into her mouth, and she sucked him there as she pumped his cock with her fist. Eddie’s breathing was erratic and quick, and he began to wonder how long he could last. Just when he thought he couldn’t hold on any longer, Chloe stood up, leaving Eddie exposed again, the cooler air from the room chasing Eddie’s climax away.

“Everyone get naked. Now,” Chloe commanded, as she stepped out of the room.  

“Where is she going?” Eddie asked as he began to undress.

“Not sure, probably to get some toy,” you said, and you kissed and undressed each other while you waited for her to return. Eddie kissed you deeply and stroked your breasts as you pumped his dick, and shortly Chloe returned. She was naked except for a large strap-on secured around her hips.

“Don’t worry loverboy. You’re hers, so I’m not going to fuck you. Her though,” she nodded toward you, “her I’m going to fuck.”

“Uh, ok,” was all Eddie could manage. He sat back on his heels on the bed as you positioned yourself in front of him on your knees. You slipped your mouth back over Eddie’s cock as Chloe positioned herself behind you. She had already lubed up her appendage, and she slid into you with ease. You gasped around Eddie’s cock as she began to pump into you. Eddie watched as Chloe fucked into you from behind, and then they leaned forward and kissed as you were being spit-roasted. Your moans were choked and drowned out by being so thoroughly filled, but you were never in any danger, and you loved every second of it. You squealed as Chloe hit deep inside, sliding her silicone dick along your inner g-spot and making you see stars as she and Eddie sucked face above you.

It felt so good, so damn good, that your first orgasm arrived quickly, making your legs quiver and you sobbed unintelligible nonsense onto Eddie’s cock as you rode out the waves of pleasure.

“His turn,” Chloe cooed as she slipped out of you, and she unbuckled the straps of her toy and set it aside. You sat up on your knees. “Are you doing alright?” you murmured into Eddie’s mouth as you kissed him.

“Mmmhmm. Oh yes. You?” he replied between kisses.

You nodded. “Oh hell yeah.”

You felt him smile against your mouth, and then you pulled away to lay down in front of him. Chloe laid your head in her lap. “Okay,” she said. “Now fuck her.”

She cradled your head, stroking your forehead and brushing stray whisps of hair away from your face with surprising gentleness as Eddie lifted your leg and placed it on his shoulder. He grasped himself at his base and positioned himself at your entrance. He leaned down to suckle one of your nipples, making you groan as he slid inside. 

Eddie started to thrust steadily in and out.  Chloe moved her right hand down to your throat and squeezed gently. Not enough to actually choke you, but enough to make little stars appear at the corner of your vision, setting all of your senses alight. The groan that emanated from your lips was enough to make Eddie nearly lose it right then and there.

Your second orgasm slammed into you so quickly that it caught you by surprise, and you squealed and mewled and babbled. Eddie didn’t slow down, however, only picked up his pace, his hips slapping into yours rhythmically.

Chloe gently slid out from under your head and repositioned herself closer to the point at which Eddie and yourself were joined, and she trailed her fingers down your glistening tummy to play with your clit. You arched your back and keened at the dual sensation of your highly sensitive nub being manually stimulated while Eddie fucked you roughly. She gently encircled the sensitive bud with a manicured finger, and Eddie watched, leaning back slightly to grant her better access.

She leaned down and licked across the nub, and with the other hand she reached up to play with Eddie’s balls, sending both of you into paroxysms of delight. Eddie was hitting you so deep, and Chloe’s tongue was sending you reeling straight toward your third orgasm. Chloe grasped the ankle that wasn’t resting on Eddie’s shoulder and held it aloft and she sat up, holding your ankle and gazing down at you as she watched you come apart, rubbing your clit with her fingers.  

As you came down from your third orgasm, she got up off the bed, slipped on a robe, and sat in your little desk chair to light a cigarette.  “The rest is just for you two lovebirds,” she said as she exhaled a plume of fragrant smoke.

Eddie looked at her briefly before returning his gaze to your face, and his beautiful browns looked directly into yours. He let your ankle slide down to the crook of his arm as he leaned forward, and he cupped your face in his hands before diving in for a sweet kiss. His thrusting had slowed, and he seemed to be reveling in just being with you for a moment before his pace grew more erratic. He stopped kissing you and fucked you to his own completion with his forehead pressed against yours. It was intimate and close, and though Chloe was still watching from her chair, her gaze was no longer predatory, it was something you couldn’t quite describe. It was soft.

Eddie pulled out of you, pumping pearls of his seed onto your soft belly. You panted and sighed happily as you returned to the real world, the cloud you had been residing upon slowly sinking back to the earth. Eddie cleaned you with the same discarded tank top that had acted as his temporary (and futile) modesty barrier, and he planted a kiss against the smooth skin of your hip before he turned to pull his jeans back on.

You sat up and began pulling on your own clothes, Chloe stood up and made her way toward the exit. “Not bad for a last hurrah,” she said, smiling, before she slipped out of the room.

“And then there were two,” you said in an attempt to dispel some of the awkwardness that had settled in the wake of Chloe’s departure. Eddie chuckled.

“Listen,” he said, his smile faltering. “I want you to know that I didn’t come here looking for…that. Or anything like that. I was just stoked you called.”

You smiled. “Oh I know. And even though I did have some ulterior motives for calling you, I think the most I was planning to do was ask you out.” You chuckled. “Not that I mind the outcome.”

Eddie grinned. “No, I certainly don’t mind either.”

“But that will never happen again. I don’t like to share.”

“Understood. But…BUT,” Eddie held up a finger, as if to emphasize a caveat was coming.

“Yeah?” you said, suddenly feeling anxious.

“Before we talk about what’s gonna happen next, don’t you think you should ask me out?”

You laughed. “Eddie Munson, would you like to go on a date with me?”

Eddie nodded. “Hell yes. I hear this new movie Witchboard is pretty good. Wanna go see it with me?”

You could barely contain your grin. “I thought you’d never ask.”

Thanks for reading! As always, likes, comments, reblogs are so appreciated.

Special thanks to @misskittysmagicportal for the song inspo and your continuing encouragement ❤️

MASTERLIST